Scarlett

Scarlett, always up for adventure, put on her hat and readied to make her way to Grand Central Station to meet Velma, her oddcouple best friend, coming from the countryside

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Scarlett sat on a hard wooden bench, loving the excitement of Grand Central at rush hour.  Where could all these funny little people be scurrying off to?  Her mind wandered to Sherman.  Nobody had visited since his passing and though Velma was her dearest friend, Scarlett couldn’t help wonder if she shouldn’t have removed a few of her photos of dear Sherman. The ones in her bedroom were fine, of course, but there was the enormous painting of her true love over the fireplace.  She’d had it painted after he’d passed, from his nose to the top of his head.

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Velma hadn’t seen it, and Scarlett had kept its plan and perchuse rather quiet — unusual for Scarlett who threw care to the wind.

Well, she couldn’t hide it now, Velma would be here any moment, and they’d return to Scarlett’s apartment together.

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About Funnermother

I am queen of the helicopter parents. But there are enough of us that we are becoming a social problem. Here’s my story. Thing 1 was coming, they couldn’t stop him, it was only 24 weeks and 3 days. Someone asked: should we try to save him? Well, yes. Yes! Ten days later, a team of doctors closed the door behind us to explain brain bleeds, sepsis, meningitis. Shall we pull the plug? Well, no. No! Babydaddy laid hands on him every day, massaged him when he was ready. For the three months he was in intensive care, and the three weeks at an intermediate hospital, I would get up in the night and pump breast milk, thinking about my baby across town. Babydaddy delivered it every morning, earning the name “milkman.” It was funny. We had every therapy going for as long as possible: early intervention, the intermediate unit, private therapies. Terms multiplied: sensory processing dysfunction, sensory integration problems, orally defensive, auditory sensitivities, comprehensive developmental delay, cognitive function impairment, retinopathy of prematurity. He did occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, play therapy; we consulted with a neurologist, school psychologist, wraparound service provider, developmental specialist. He worked with an occupational therapist for a year and a half to tolerate teeth and hair brushing. Not surprisingly, parenting didn’t feel natural. I learned to read to my baby watching Phyllis, our physical therapist. Voices, commentary, labeling colors, counting… she was very good! Merging professional research skills with my genetic propensity for silliness (mom was class clown, dad’s distantly related to Lucille Ball), my mothering style came together. Eventually. But I still channel Phyllis on occasion. Thing 2 was full term. They are complete opposites; she is a sensory seeker with a wild sense of adventure and an inventive sense of fashion. Keeping them both busy and happy is an exasperating and sweet challenge. I still believe that every day can be fun and educational while reinforcing kids' boundaries. I’m on a mission to save us helicopter parents from ourselves. No more bubble wrapped kids and guilty parents. Let’s teach them coping skills. Let’s get fun.
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