It is said that on All Hallow's Eve, the veil between the living and the dead is at it's thinnest. I completely believe it because I am almost certain that my children have been possessed by some kind of monsters or demons today. And we are supposed to drag them around and have them beg for candy to add to the sugar high? Hell no. NOT. FREAKING. HAPPENING.
So far my youngest has colored all over himself and the couch (that I just cleaned) with pink highlighter, and then ripped his diaper off and peed in the Yard Sale Box. I'd say the value of the items in there has pretty much depreciated about as far as it can go without them being set on fire. Instead of helping contain the insanity that is my toddler, Tink has been feeding it to him with a shovel.
"Let's kick the ball!" (She forgot to add, "into Mom's jade plants!")
"Wanna play with the horsey?" ("And swing it around until we wipe out half of the items on the desk?")
I think there is some kind of exchange of words that takes place in a frequency that can only be heard by other children that are in hellfire mode. They plot out the attack, morph into little evil, sanity-sucking monsters and berate their parents with shot after shot until we are left a quivering mass on the bathroom floor, all the while listening to the little scratching of fingernails on the door, trying to get in and finish the job. I hear that sound in my nightmares sometimes.
Normally I would discipline and time out until I exorcised the demons and my wonderful children returned. Today is not normal. Mommy is handing control of the asylum over to the patients. I am going to finish dinner, confiscate the remote and watch and episode of "Parenthood" on Netflix, and fantasize about how wonderful it would be to solve all of our problems in an hour.
About that time Daddy should be home to deal with it, and Mommy can have a cocktail.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Frankenstorm
For those of you that don't know, I live on an island (okay, it's more like a peninsula) along the Susquehanna River. It's a quiet little neighborhood nestled along the river, with beautiful views and soil so fertile it grows tomatoes from the seeds of rotten ones that you ask your kid to throw in the compost bin, but in his laziness, he just tosses them into the garden. Sounds perfect, huh? I thought the same thing until last September when we met our first Isle of Que flooding.
Apparently with living on an island along the river comes flooding. We found this out when Hurricane Irene tore up the East Coast and was followed by Tropical Storm Lee, that just shuffled along, dumping inches and inches of rain all over the state of Pennsylvania. We went from expecting it to get up to our doors, but not into the house to getting a call from our landlord telling us that we might have 4 feet of water on our first floor. Shit. Shit. Shit.
With having no flood insurance, we started moving everything that we could carry upstairs and putting everything else up as high as we could get it. We woke up early the next morning to continue the process and were joined by Big Daddy's friend and my mom and sister. The water was rising slowly so Big Daddy, my mom and BD's friend took our car and the kayaks out to the storage area. In the half hour that they were gone, the water rose two feet and went from just covering our sidewalk to lapping at our door stoop, threatening to come in. I was alone in the house with Nutt, Evel and Trid (my 13 y.o. sister), and I had to get them to safety. I gave them each a life jacket, grabbed Nutt and we started wading through the foot and a half of river that was now covering our sidewalk. We made it to the alley at the mid-point of our block and to higher ground, but that was the most terrifying 10 minutes of my life. To say that water rises quickly is an understatement. In the half hour that it took Big Daddy, the water came up so quickly that my mom almost lost her SUV and if we didn't have the lift on the Suburban (which I had previously called stupid and unnecessary), we would have lost it along with the camper that was about to become our home for the next seven weeks. To say I had a stressful day would be an understatement.
Side note here: IF YOU ARE TOLD TO EVACUATE, GET THE HELL OUT. Stuff is just stuff. There will be people around to give you new stuff. Trust me, I know. I cannot begin to tell you how terrified I was while trying to get those kids through the water, and I would have never forgiven myself if something would have happened to any of them. I did A LOT of bargaining with God during this time. Hindsight is 20/20. Just. Get. Out.
Anyway, we wound up with 25 inches of water on our first floor. We lost our bedroom set, a desk, the kitchen table set and a few other things (like the hot tub that we had just installed and never got to use). We gained mud. So much effing mud. And flood mud smells so different than regular earthy mud. This is a bitter, acrid stink that clings to everything it touches. It is mud that is mixed with oil and gasoline and anything else that it washed over and picked up along the way. And there were inches of it in my freaking house and it was touching all of my stuff. I felt so dirty and violated.
With the arrival of mud came the worst part...the cleaning. I hate cleaning more than almost anything, especially mopping the floors. We mopped, we hosed, we squeegeed and there was STILL MUD. EVERYWHERE. To this day (a year later), I still find it when I'm cleaning. This stuff is oil based and nasty. We ripped all of the carpet out and replaced the drywall from 36 inches down, but I still catch a whiff every now and then and my stomach feels like I had one too many shots of tequila. I flood is something I would not wish on my worst enemy and definitely not something I had ever hoped to do again. That is why we bought a new house. A house that was supposed to be ours on October 26, but had a shit tank too close to the drinking water for us to get the loan. A house that should now be our on November 9, which is a week too late to avoid Frankenstorm.
Effing Frankenstorm. Apparently this monster is shaping up to be a doosie. Hurricane Sandy is going to meet up with a storm coming down from the north and cause all kinds of havoc on the East Coast. It's a slow moving storm that is going to hang around for about a week and offer up gale force winds, possibly snow and torrential downpours of rain. Lots and lots of freaking rain. What I've learned from Tropical Storm Lee is that slow moving storms with rain are the ones that brings flooding. Lots and lots of flooding. Shit. Shit. Shit. Again.
The thing that is really getting to me is the anticipation. I just want it to get here so we can get it over with. Let it rain, let it snow, but please God, do not let it flood. For the sake of my (and my family's) sanity, do not make me have to buy all new underwear again because the flood mud got it's hand all over the ones I already own. While we have flood insurance this time around, I don't think I can handle living in a camper with my older kids and the wiser posteriors they've gained since last year. So I will sit and twiddle my thumbs and try not to freak out until this monster gimps up on us. What I wouldn't give for an angry mob with burning torches to send this bastard back to Hell right about now.
Apparently with living on an island along the river comes flooding. We found this out when Hurricane Irene tore up the East Coast and was followed by Tropical Storm Lee, that just shuffled along, dumping inches and inches of rain all over the state of Pennsylvania. We went from expecting it to get up to our doors, but not into the house to getting a call from our landlord telling us that we might have 4 feet of water on our first floor. Shit. Shit. Shit.
With having no flood insurance, we started moving everything that we could carry upstairs and putting everything else up as high as we could get it. We woke up early the next morning to continue the process and were joined by Big Daddy's friend and my mom and sister. The water was rising slowly so Big Daddy, my mom and BD's friend took our car and the kayaks out to the storage area. In the half hour that they were gone, the water rose two feet and went from just covering our sidewalk to lapping at our door stoop, threatening to come in. I was alone in the house with Nutt, Evel and Trid (my 13 y.o. sister), and I had to get them to safety. I gave them each a life jacket, grabbed Nutt and we started wading through the foot and a half of river that was now covering our sidewalk. We made it to the alley at the mid-point of our block and to higher ground, but that was the most terrifying 10 minutes of my life. To say that water rises quickly is an understatement. In the half hour that it took Big Daddy, the water came up so quickly that my mom almost lost her SUV and if we didn't have the lift on the Suburban (which I had previously called stupid and unnecessary), we would have lost it along with the camper that was about to become our home for the next seven weeks. To say I had a stressful day would be an understatement.
 |
| The last shot of our little house before we left. Helpless is the only word to describe it. |
Anyway, we wound up with 25 inches of water on our first floor. We lost our bedroom set, a desk, the kitchen table set and a few other things (like the hot tub that we had just installed and never got to use). We gained mud. So much effing mud. And flood mud smells so different than regular earthy mud. This is a bitter, acrid stink that clings to everything it touches. It is mud that is mixed with oil and gasoline and anything else that it washed over and picked up along the way. And there were inches of it in my freaking house and it was touching all of my stuff. I felt so dirty and violated.
 |
| The carpet was blue 72 hours earlier. |
 |
| Found the hot tub in a farmer's field about a half mile from our house. It's still there is anyone wants it. |
With the arrival of mud came the worst part...the cleaning. I hate cleaning more than almost anything, especially mopping the floors. We mopped, we hosed, we squeegeed and there was STILL MUD. EVERYWHERE. To this day (a year later), I still find it when I'm cleaning. This stuff is oil based and nasty. We ripped all of the carpet out and replaced the drywall from 36 inches down, but I still catch a whiff every now and then and my stomach feels like I had one too many shots of tequila. I flood is something I would not wish on my worst enemy and definitely not something I had ever hoped to do again. That is why we bought a new house. A house that was supposed to be ours on October 26, but had a shit tank too close to the drinking water for us to get the loan. A house that should now be our on November 9, which is a week too late to avoid Frankenstorm.
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| My thoughts on cleaning. Give me a Natty Light and leave me the Hell alone. |
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| The items that people lost. The dumpster in front of our house filled up so it wound up piling up on our sidewalk. |
The thing that is really getting to me is the anticipation. I just want it to get here so we can get it over with. Let it rain, let it snow, but please God, do not let it flood. For the sake of my (and my family's) sanity, do not make me have to buy all new underwear again because the flood mud got it's hand all over the ones I already own. While we have flood insurance this time around, I don't think I can handle living in a camper with my older kids and the wiser posteriors they've gained since last year. So I will sit and twiddle my thumbs and try not to freak out until this monster gimps up on us. What I wouldn't give for an angry mob with burning torches to send this bastard back to Hell right about now.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
No Critics?
I know that I have not always been the nicest person when it comes to my views on others: I think elderly people are dangerous when operating any kind of motorized vehicle (shopping carts included), I cannot stand to see overweight kids eating fast food and I loathe litterbugs to the point that I've followed one across a parking lot to hand her the candy bar wrapper she tossed on the ground. But the one place that I have never been judgmental is the gym. I don't care if you are 10 or 100 pounds overweight (or not overweight at all)...if you took the initiative to go to a gym to get yourself into better shape, I will commend you on your efforts (plus the gym policy kind of forbids me from being critical of others). So imagine my surprise when two snarky bitches were critical of ME (for the second time) this morning.
We'll call these girls Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Asshat (TD and TA, respectively). TD and TA are regulars in the gym that I attend, so I have never questioned their motives. Sure, I see them walking 1.5 miles per hour on the treadmill down the row from me so they can chat and play Angry Birds on their phones, but I've never questioned it because they are still doing laps around everyone that is at home in bed. I've also never said anything when they sit on the machines before, between and after their reps to gossip about TA's ex and his new girlfriend (who also attends the same gym at approximately the same time in the morning as TD, TA and myself).
I've seen these girls laughing at bigger people on treadmills and whispering about older people lifting weights. I've even seen them talking about me. Not once, but twice. I have no idea why. Maybe it's the sweat that is dripping out of every single pore on my body or the occasional grunt that slips out when I'm on my 11th or 12th rep. I don't really know, but it bothers me. I am there to exercise and get in shape, not to gossip with one of my friends about people that are in worse shape than me, which by the way, BOTH of these girls are. If I walk out of the gym looking just as pretty as I did when I walked in, then I didn't work hard enough.
So today I said something. I asked if there was a problem. They both kind of looked at me and rolled their eyes. I just smiled sweetly and told them that since there was no problem, maybe the needed to ask me something, like for exercise pointers (I believe my exact words were something along the lines of, "Maybe I can show you how to stop gossiping and exercise?"). I got the look of death, more eye rolls and two very bitchy answers of, "No thanks." I shrugged and walked away. I can only imagine what was said as I headed over to the big girl machines. I'm currently waiting for my phone to ring to tell me that my workout card has been revoked.
Even if it is, I think I made the right decision. To go to a gym to sit around and laugh at people that are trying to better themselves says to me that you are unhappy with yourself. Maybe if you weren't so miserable, your ex wouldn't be with the cute little blonde that sweats just as much as me when she is at the gym. Maybe if you actually busted your ass a little, you might look a bit more like that cute little blonde. But to sit around and make jokes about other people while you are taking up machines that these people use to benefit themselves is a waste of time and money. Trade your high horse for an exercise bike and USE IT. I will not be ashamed for doing what that place was created for, and I will not be pressured into being uncomfortable by two little crones that don't understand that high school is over. Most importantly, go sell bitchy somewhere else, we're all stocked up here.
Am I the only one experiencing this in adulthood, too???
We'll call these girls Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Asshat (TD and TA, respectively). TD and TA are regulars in the gym that I attend, so I have never questioned their motives. Sure, I see them walking 1.5 miles per hour on the treadmill down the row from me so they can chat and play Angry Birds on their phones, but I've never questioned it because they are still doing laps around everyone that is at home in bed. I've also never said anything when they sit on the machines before, between and after their reps to gossip about TA's ex and his new girlfriend (who also attends the same gym at approximately the same time in the morning as TD, TA and myself).
I've seen these girls laughing at bigger people on treadmills and whispering about older people lifting weights. I've even seen them talking about me. Not once, but twice. I have no idea why. Maybe it's the sweat that is dripping out of every single pore on my body or the occasional grunt that slips out when I'm on my 11th or 12th rep. I don't really know, but it bothers me. I am there to exercise and get in shape, not to gossip with one of my friends about people that are in worse shape than me, which by the way, BOTH of these girls are. If I walk out of the gym looking just as pretty as I did when I walked in, then I didn't work hard enough.
So today I said something. I asked if there was a problem. They both kind of looked at me and rolled their eyes. I just smiled sweetly and told them that since there was no problem, maybe the needed to ask me something, like for exercise pointers (I believe my exact words were something along the lines of, "Maybe I can show you how to stop gossiping and exercise?"). I got the look of death, more eye rolls and two very bitchy answers of, "No thanks." I shrugged and walked away. I can only imagine what was said as I headed over to the big girl machines. I'm currently waiting for my phone to ring to tell me that my workout card has been revoked.
Even if it is, I think I made the right decision. To go to a gym to sit around and laugh at people that are trying to better themselves says to me that you are unhappy with yourself. Maybe if you weren't so miserable, your ex wouldn't be with the cute little blonde that sweats just as much as me when she is at the gym. Maybe if you actually busted your ass a little, you might look a bit more like that cute little blonde. But to sit around and make jokes about other people while you are taking up machines that these people use to benefit themselves is a waste of time and money. Trade your high horse for an exercise bike and USE IT. I will not be ashamed for doing what that place was created for, and I will not be pressured into being uncomfortable by two little crones that don't understand that high school is over. Most importantly, go sell bitchy somewhere else, we're all stocked up here.
Am I the only one experiencing this in adulthood, too???
Monday, October 22, 2012
Please Vote!
It's time to shamelessly plug my cousin's kids. They've entered into a Halloween contest in the hopes of winning an iPad 2 or a 4 pack of tickets to a local haunted attraction. Please take a minute to go vote for them and pass this on. They've had a really rough year after their father was killed in a work accident. Any little bit of sunshine would really help them. Thanks everyone! Please remember to pass this link on to anyone and everyone!
Thursday, October 18, 2012
So To Speak
I haven't written in a while because my life has been generally uneventful, yet absolutely chaotic at the same time, but today, I need to pour out my heart. Overwhelmed does not begin to cover it.
Today was Nutt's one year pre-evaluation for speech therapy. He has been working with an amazing woman named Angela since we realized last October that he was behind on his verbal skills. No mama, no dada...he wasn't even saying 'no' (which was the first word spoken by my oldest, and is still his favorite). Our rep from Early Intervention helped us find Angela and she has really helped to pluck little tiny words out of the brain and mouth of our little guy. I thought he was coming along great.
After asking me every question on a three page (front and back) questionnaire, Angela determined that Zayden is running about the same as an 18-month-old would be with his speech. He turned two in August. I was shocked. The reasoning is that other than me, no one has a clue what this little jabber-jaw is saying. I hear "drawing" while Angela hears "fowin." I hear "brush" while Angela hears "buh" (which is apparently the same thing she hears when he says "bye," "book," and "ball").
Even with all of the progress I thought we had made, Nutt is still almost a year behind other kids his age. I see my BFF's son (who is about 3 months younger than Nutt), and it is glaringly obvious that he is more verbally advanced than our little guy. I watch him repeat new words on command, while Nutt just stares at us when we try. I watch him tell his family "I love you" while Nutt just demands that we change the "buh" channel ("buh" apparently means TV, too). I've even come to realize that Nutt is further behind with his speech than Evel was at his age, which led to speech therapy later and a hellish stutter that he still has to consciously control whenever he is nervous or upset.
But Angela is confident that we will get him talking (in a language that all can understand) in no time. She said that delays are common in kids that have been diagnosed with facial palsy, and that there are techniques we can use once he gets a little older to get him talking. There is also a plateau between 24-30 months, which is where he is right now. She gave me a list of things to try with him this week, and went on her way to help other kids like Nutt.
This gave me time to think. Couple that with PMS, and it's a very slippery slope right into me becoming a basket case about my child's inability to pick up on the cuss words that I use on a daily basis (which Evel also had no problem doing). Are my genes defective and that's why both of my kids didn't talk until well after two years old? Is he just being stubborn or is it something physical that is preventing him from talking? There were tons of questions that swirled around in my head.
But the one that kept nagging at me, the one that I push away every time I think about it, kept coming back to me. What if he wouldn't have been diagnosed with Moebius Syndrome when he was born? What if he would have been "perfect?"
Even typing that rips a flood of tears out of my eyes. Of course, I think that my son is perfect and no, I would never trade him for a kid that closes both of his eyes when he cries. I just wonder if we would be going through speech therapy. I can't imagine that we would have ever visited a pediatric neurologist or learned how to get fluorescein out of clothing. We wouldn't have spent hours doing research about how to protect a baby's eyes from wind and I know for damn sure I would have chosen a vehicle based on factors other than Pennsylvania's window tint law.
We also wouldn't have to worry about our son being picked on by kids that don't understand his diagnosis, and that don't see what an awesome, funny, adorable little cheeseball he really is once you get to know him. And am I supposed to send a note on picture day asking that the school photographer turn him the opposite direction from how they usually photograph the kids so we can get his "good side," or would that just single him out even more? Will the school allow him to carry his eye drops with him or we he have to go to the nurse's office every time his eye gets dried out? What if he still can't talk "right" by the time he starts school AND half of his face doesn't move? What if the school doesn't help if he gets bullied? How will Big Daddy afford my bail money if I have to pay the principal a visit?
All of this stuff lurks in my mind at all times. My biggest fear is that these bullies that don't even exist yet will steal the little half a smile that we are lucky enough to have. I worry that he'll find it easier to just stop laughing in the hopes that people might not notice that he doesn't smile the same way as everyone else. Nutt is such a fun-loving kid, and to think that someone might snuff out that happy little spirit makes my stomach do flips. He deserves his carefree childhood. Every kid does.
Sometimes I feel guilty worrying so much about Nutt because of all of the kids out there that have serious health complications. I fee like my worries pale in comparison to that of a mother who has to constantly monitor her child to make sure their trach tube doesn't come out while he or she is sleeping or a dad that has to make sure his child gets her epilepsy meds so she doesn't have a seizure. My worries seem like the end of the world to me sometimes, but what about the people that are begging our creator to keep their child alive for just one more day? They deserve to give me a kick in the ass and tell me that I should appreciate everything that is right with my son, and to stop dwelling on everything that is wrong. And they are right.
So yes, I wonder how would life be different if everything was perfect. I honestly don't know. But I do know that this is the life I have been given, and I also know that I am thankful for it. I am thankful for my kids and my husband and every minute that I get to spend worrying about them. I am thankful for the people that I have met through Nutt's Moebius Syndrome diagnosis, and I am thankful to be able to call these people my friends. I am thankful for the strength that I didn't know I had until a little baby peered at me with an eye that didn't close. I am also thankful that just two short years after the day that we all realized something wasn't right, we now have a bubbly, rambunctious toddler that couldn't be more perfect.
So I will try to take deep breaths, let everything come naturally and try to remember that if it wasn't for the rain, we would never be able to follow the rainbows that lead us to our pots of gold.
Today was Nutt's one year pre-evaluation for speech therapy. He has been working with an amazing woman named Angela since we realized last October that he was behind on his verbal skills. No mama, no dada...he wasn't even saying 'no' (which was the first word spoken by my oldest, and is still his favorite). Our rep from Early Intervention helped us find Angela and she has really helped to pluck little tiny words out of the brain and mouth of our little guy. I thought he was coming along great.
After asking me every question on a three page (front and back) questionnaire, Angela determined that Zayden is running about the same as an 18-month-old would be with his speech. He turned two in August. I was shocked. The reasoning is that other than me, no one has a clue what this little jabber-jaw is saying. I hear "drawing" while Angela hears "fowin." I hear "brush" while Angela hears "buh" (which is apparently the same thing she hears when he says "bye," "book," and "ball").
Even with all of the progress I thought we had made, Nutt is still almost a year behind other kids his age. I see my BFF's son (who is about 3 months younger than Nutt), and it is glaringly obvious that he is more verbally advanced than our little guy. I watch him repeat new words on command, while Nutt just stares at us when we try. I watch him tell his family "I love you" while Nutt just demands that we change the "buh" channel ("buh" apparently means TV, too). I've even come to realize that Nutt is further behind with his speech than Evel was at his age, which led to speech therapy later and a hellish stutter that he still has to consciously control whenever he is nervous or upset.
But Angela is confident that we will get him talking (in a language that all can understand) in no time. She said that delays are common in kids that have been diagnosed with facial palsy, and that there are techniques we can use once he gets a little older to get him talking. There is also a plateau between 24-30 months, which is where he is right now. She gave me a list of things to try with him this week, and went on her way to help other kids like Nutt.
This gave me time to think. Couple that with PMS, and it's a very slippery slope right into me becoming a basket case about my child's inability to pick up on the cuss words that I use on a daily basis (which Evel also had no problem doing). Are my genes defective and that's why both of my kids didn't talk until well after two years old? Is he just being stubborn or is it something physical that is preventing him from talking? There were tons of questions that swirled around in my head.
But the one that kept nagging at me, the one that I push away every time I think about it, kept coming back to me. What if he wouldn't have been diagnosed with Moebius Syndrome when he was born? What if he would have been "perfect?"
 |
| The day we left the NICU. I don't even recognize this baby anymore. |
Even typing that rips a flood of tears out of my eyes. Of course, I think that my son is perfect and no, I would never trade him for a kid that closes both of his eyes when he cries. I just wonder if we would be going through speech therapy. I can't imagine that we would have ever visited a pediatric neurologist or learned how to get fluorescein out of clothing. We wouldn't have spent hours doing research about how to protect a baby's eyes from wind and I know for damn sure I would have chosen a vehicle based on factors other than Pennsylvania's window tint law.
We also wouldn't have to worry about our son being picked on by kids that don't understand his diagnosis, and that don't see what an awesome, funny, adorable little cheeseball he really is once you get to know him. And am I supposed to send a note on picture day asking that the school photographer turn him the opposite direction from how they usually photograph the kids so we can get his "good side," or would that just single him out even more? Will the school allow him to carry his eye drops with him or we he have to go to the nurse's office every time his eye gets dried out? What if he still can't talk "right" by the time he starts school AND half of his face doesn't move? What if the school doesn't help if he gets bullied? How will Big Daddy afford my bail money if I have to pay the principal a visit?
 |
| Big Daddy and his Xerox copy |
Sometimes I feel guilty worrying so much about Nutt because of all of the kids out there that have serious health complications. I fee like my worries pale in comparison to that of a mother who has to constantly monitor her child to make sure their trach tube doesn't come out while he or she is sleeping or a dad that has to make sure his child gets her epilepsy meds so she doesn't have a seizure. My worries seem like the end of the world to me sometimes, but what about the people that are begging our creator to keep their child alive for just one more day? They deserve to give me a kick in the ass and tell me that I should appreciate everything that is right with my son, and to stop dwelling on everything that is wrong. And they are right.
 |
| 18-month-old picture of our little future Nittany Lion |
So yes, I wonder how would life be different if everything was perfect. I honestly don't know. But I do know that this is the life I have been given, and I also know that I am thankful for it. I am thankful for my kids and my husband and every minute that I get to spend worrying about them. I am thankful for the people that I have met through Nutt's Moebius Syndrome diagnosis, and I am thankful to be able to call these people my friends. I am thankful for the strength that I didn't know I had until a little baby peered at me with an eye that didn't close. I am also thankful that just two short years after the day that we all realized something wasn't right, we now have a bubbly, rambunctious toddler that couldn't be more perfect.
So I will try to take deep breaths, let everything come naturally and try to remember that if it wasn't for the rain, we would never be able to follow the rainbows that lead us to our pots of gold.
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| The doctor made a huge deal about this because you can see Nutt smiling...on his paralyzed side, which would have never been able to move because of the missing nerve. Irony at its best. |
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| The first smile. October 16, 2010. Funny the things people take for granted. |
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| The first Moebius Syndrome Awareness Day (1/14/11) |
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| Cheesers! |
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| Head to the Moebius Syndrome conference! |
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| Merry Christmas from a little Nutt! |
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| Two years old already. Where did the time go? |
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