I've always LOVED getting mail. My dad was a mailman, and ever since I can remember, I would always run up to him when he got home from work around 3 o'clock everyday and excitedly inquire, "Anything for me?!" Exhausted and probably a little irritated, my dad's answer would almost always be, "Nooo Cherie, not today." Looking back it's funny to think that a 7 year old girl was so interested in mail...and I wonder what exactly I was expecting? My university acceptance letter? My REAL moms open adoption records with a letter saying she wanted to meet me and that she was rich and famous? Haha! None of those letters ever showed up, but my dad would usually satiate my hunger for mail with a Publishers Clearing House envelope every now and then, or anything with a 'bulk' mail stamp up in it's right hand corner. And yes, if you're wondering, I would fill it out and send the prepaid stamped envelope (if mailed within Canada) back asap, and then spend the next three weeks dreaming of what I'd do with all of my riches.
I took my grade 11 year of school by correspondence and I swear that the only reason I got all A's and B's and was so gung ho about completing my assignments, was because I couldn't wait to slip the finished assignment into my dad's mail bag and then sit back and try to patiently wait for my marked and graded papers to come back to me. How exciting! Anyway, my whole point here is that SMA has tainted my lifelong love of mail. Today, all before 9am, we had the buzzer ring twice, once with a package we were expecting, and once with a package we were not. Both of which were medical supplies for Charlie. Last week I decided to order 3 months worth of supplies for Charlie so I could see what it looked like, and so that Matt and I could really grasp what to expect, and so we could get used to what we should be ordering for Charlie. 3 months worth of supplies for Charlie looks like 3 large boxes filled with feeding bags, suction tubing, g-tube kits, vinegar, syringes, filters, suppositories, etc. So, that's what we can expect.
Last night we spent over an hour trying to soothe Charlie while she tried to poop. It is such an ordeal for her to do so. Her muscles don't work well so I imagine it's mega turmoil in her tummy, but with no quick exit, no relief for her...all I know is that it just looks like such a painful experience for her. We give her a daily laxative as well as a suppository every 3 days, which I had the pleasure of giving her last night. So crazy the things you find yourself capable of doing after having children. What I once said, "NEVER" to, I'm all, "No biggie" to now. Anyway, It took Charlie about 45 mins after the laxative and 45 rounds of a mash up of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star mixed with the ABC's to calm down. I also may or may not have given her a little nuzzle of the breast for the first time in a month. But, it worked. And she was only needing it for comfort, not food, and I'll admit that it made me feel pretty awesome to know that she still 'needs' me, and she's still my little baby. I plan on saving that trick for special occasions only.
I noticed Matt staring into space a few days ago (again) and I asked him, "Hey, what are you thinking?" He said, "Oh, not much." "Are you thinking about how effing awesome your life is?"I sarcastically replied. "Oh, yeah, just soooo awesome!" He joked back. "I bet you're just sittin' there wondering...What's the catch, this life is too good to be true?!" I joked. And we both just started laughing hysterically. That's what we do. That's how we get by and stay somewhat sane. I remember when we were in Hawaii, I was moving Charlie's legs back and forth and ZZ Tops "She's got legs" popped into my head and I started singing it while making Charlie 'dance'...but when the part, "she knows how to use them" came up, I couldn't help but sing it, "she doesn't know how to use them" and again, we both had to laugh. I think humor is VERY important in situations such as these...how mentally depleting would it be to take things too seriously, and to feel guilty for laughing? That in itself would put me in an institution.