My mother-in-law came up last week to look after Simone while I stapled myself to a chair at a coffee shop and attempted to wrest a few sentences from the vice grip of my mind. Deadlines, you see. As a result, things I want to tell you have accumulated, so this might be a bit disjointed.
The Early Intervention appointment was, in a word, wonderful. My baby was at her best—the occupational therapist spent the whole meeting playing with her, and Simone was delighted, talking and cooing and even managing to grab her own feet for the first time, the little showoff. Actually, that part made it clear how badly I need to get someone in here a couple mornings a week to watch my spawn while I work. Simone does not nap. And so as it is, I spend the day half-working and half-tending to Simone, and not only do I get very little writing done, but I am rarely able to engage fully with my nursling because I am constantly trying to do two things at once. Seeing the OT crawl on the floor to play while Simone squealed and shimmied and nearly rolled over made me realize how little time I spend doing that. If I had some dedicated work time, I could spend playtime babbling at my baby instead of plopping Simone on her activity mat while I attempt to read the same sentence of the same email for the fourth time.
Wow. I sound like a FANTASTIC mother. Three half-hearted, neglectful cheers for me! (ANY NANNIES IN THE AUDIENCE?)
Anyway, the EI team was pleased with Simone’s development, and she is mostly on track with her adjusted age (4 months). They were concerned about her not napping (with so much catching up to do, preemies can’t afford to get very behind on sleep), so we will work on helping her with self-regulation and over-stimulation. We have visits from our primary therapist once a week or so from now on, with other professionals dropping in as necessary. Simone’s prematurity qualifies her for free services until she is three.
At the very least, these services will help her catch up to her actual age, and at most, they will help us navigate more serious issues that arise—and realistically, it is likely that Simone will need a bit of help with something. I am immensely grateful that programs like this exist.
However, more exciting than FREE EARLY CHILDHOOD EDUCATION (I know! How is it possible?), is the story of how I came to spend my Friday morning at the courthouse.
Some time ago, I decided to switch car insurance policies. On Thursday I got a call from my new insurance company informing me that they had run my driver’s license and discovered it was suspended. I was confident that there had been a mistake, so I made some calls of my own. I should note that this was all happening with my mother-in-law there, which made it all the more AWESOME.
You may remember that I was pulled over last year. I did not get a ticket, but was written up for having neglected to update my address on my license, as well as not having my proof of insurance. If you recall, the officer assured me I would not be penalized as long as I remedied the situation speedily and produced proof. Well, I got a new license and sent copies of that and my proof of insurance off to the county, only to receive a letter at the end of January telling me that the copies were insufficient and to bring the items to the courthouse in person within 30 days or face suspended driving privileges. The astute among you may notice the timing: the end of January—when I was on bedrest. In fact, shortly after I received the letter, I landed squarely in the antepartum wing of my local hospital. Still, I called the court, called my insurance company, and sent Scott to the courthouse with money and a digital camera full of pictures of me in my fancy hospital gown, proof that I was currently indisposed. The matter, for all I knew, was thus handled.
UNTIL.
After a series of phone calls last Thursday, it was determined that while the “no proof of insurance” part of the charge had been resolved, there was no record of me changing the address on my driver’s license. So there had been an actual, honest to god court proceeding, at which SURPRISE! I failed to appear. BECAUSE NO ONE TOLD ME. Thus, unbeknownst to me, my license had been suspended since February.
Because of the “unbeknownst” part, I have continued to drive, often with the baby in the car, which means that there have been dozens of opportunities for me to be pulled over and summarily jailed, my daughter whisked away and dumped in a small, urine-soaked crib with one flickering bulb hanging from a cord overhead, left alone to wail while the officers attempted to reach my husband.
“Go with the nice lady from Children’s Services,” I imagine myself calling back to Simone as I am pressed, handcuffed, into the rear of a police cruiser, “Mama will be home soon, after an attempted shanking and a spot of forcible lesbian sex! Be good now!”
My cousin Amy informs me a suspended license was, in fact, unlikely to find me exercising in The Yard, but at any rate, CLOSE CALL.
On Friday morning we left Simone with my mother-in-law so that Scott could drive me to the courthouse. You can’t imagine how proud I am to type that sentence. And SPEAKING OF SENTENCES, I intended to stomp my foot and demand Justice, but after a long wait in a small room with a dozen of my fellow criminals (a charming bunch), I had no fight left in me. I was but a little pea, rattling around in the cold pie-plate of the system. So when it was my turn to speak to the hearing officer, I folded easily and offered to pay whatever needed paying. In the end, I was offered two options: pay x amount and have a misdemeanor on my criminal record, or pay 2x and receive a suspended sentence, meaning that my record would remain spotless as long as I keep my nose clean for the next year. I chose option two, so I have to be on my best behavior for twelve months: no speeding, no lawlessness, no felonies.
SO! How have YOU been?
