(Some) Government Agencies Suck

We’re *this* close to having insurance for Cordy and Mira. Since Aaron lost his job, we knew it was a possibility we’d run out of insurance before he could find a new one. At first, we hoped that something would appear before the end of July – how naive we were. That whole plan to bring jobs to Ohio isn’t exactly working as quickly as we’d like.

At the end of July, we realized there was no immediate job offer coming, so we applied for state assistance for health insurance for the kids. The SCHIP program has helped so many people, and while I’ve always been a supporter, I never imagined we’d have to take advantage of it. With only our freelance income, we easily qualify for it. The paperwork was submitted, all documentation was submitted and approved, and everything should be in place for my two young daughters to have health insurance to protect them if anything would happen.

I said should be in place, because as of yet it isn’t. We still have one obstacle in our way:

Our case worker.

Now, I have never bought into the stereotype of the lazy government worker. Especially since my husband was just recently a government worker, and would have been fired quickly for poor customer service in his agency. I had the belief that people who worked in government jobs did so because of their desire to help others and make a difference.

Yeah, I know. You can really stop laughing now.

Our case worker has so far been slow and unable to keep his word. Everything was submitted and in order as of the beginning of August for their health insurance. There was some question as to if we might qualify for additional help, so he said he would be in touch with us either the next Monday, or if not then, the Monday morning after that for sure. (He was going on vacation after the first Monday.)

We waited but there was no call the first Monday. We knew it was a possibility, so we crossed our fingers and hoped no one got sick that week. The second Monday morning, there was no call. By late afternoon, Aaron called the agency, and was told they would give him the message that he called, and his case worker would respond within 24 hours.

Somehow I expected a call within 24 hours. But there was no call on Tuesday. On Wednesday afternoon, nearly 2 days after Aaron called, the case worker called back, telling us he didn’t have a chance to do anything yet, but would have everything finalized by the next day. We were told he would call us back “tomorrow before 1pm.” (Thursday)

You can probably guess what happened next. There was no call on Thursday. Or Friday.

So yesterday Aaron called again first thing in the morning, and was again informed that his case worker would be back in touch within 24 hours. No call. He called again today, got the same message.

At this point, it’s been nearly a month since our children were approved for health insurance, but so far no confirmation has been made to get them enrolled.

I’m only glad this guy is dealing with Aaron and not me. I consider myself a patient person, but not where my children’s health is concerned. I’m feeling very mama bear right now, and I would likely have some choice words for him about doing what you say you will do and how damn hard is it to make a 5 minute phone call, asshole? This is about health coverage for kids!

When I worked as a student advisor, there were days when I was busy and had several phone messages waiting for me. If I wasn’t in the office the next day (I worked part-time) I’d stay the extra 5-10 minutes it took to make sure I got back to everyone, even if it was just to acknowledge their call and let them know I was looking into their question and when to expect a response.

I’d be more OK with this situation if there was a hold-up somewhere and he could take the time to let us know what the delay is. Instead, we’re left calling daily with no return call or information about when or if our girls will have health insurance. How can an agency that is dedicated to helping families in a time of need be so far off it’s goal? It seems that when it comes to Family Services in Ohio, customer service is dead.

The one upside to share with you is that Aaron had an interview last week that went very well. He was called back the next day (see? some places can call back!) and has a second interview tomorrow. If this goes well, he might be employed as early as mid-September, and insurance would be back in October. And then hopefully I can put this not-quite-nightmare, more-like-a-bad-dream of a summer behind me.



Racing Through The Fog

I really don’t have time to be depressed right now.

August is shaping up to be one of the busiest months for me, and only an Olympic-sized effort is going to get me through to the end of the month finish line with everything accomplished.

In exactly one week school begins for Cordy, and I’m completely unprepared at the moment. It’s not like I really need that much to be prepared – there are no crazy lists of supplies each child must have, including the requisite three boxes of Kleenex. She really only needs a backpack, plenty of pull-ups, and a good pair of shoes. Her feet have spent most of the summer in the freedom of sandals, due to my own obsession with summer sandals. (Am I alone in this? Foot claustrophobia is real, people. My feet must be free.)

I do worry that the emotional preparations for going back to school will be far harder. While she loved preschool last year, and will be returning to the same teacher and many of the same classmates, it’s still another transition that we must face. We’ve discussed it daily, and each time she brushes it off, saying, “I never want to go to school.” I may try giving her teacher a call this week to see if we can come visit the classroom before school starts, so Cordy can re-acquaint herself with the room before adding in the additional stress of several kids.

I’ve procrastinated on several writing projects and now must force myself to finish them and move them off my plate. They’re not difficult at all – getting the motivation to sit down and write is the hardest part. The overwhelming feelings of inadequacy attack every time I try to write something, telling me I’m not good enough to be paid to write, and anything I turn in will be rejected and laughed at. I know it’s not true, but that little voice has become very loud and persistent. I need to find a muzzle for it.

I’m so angry with myself for being depressed. Random crying fits and the energy of a sloth aren’t conducive to getting all of this done. I want to shake it off, get working, and be in overdrive again. I’m paralyzed by my thoughts. Being held down by your own emotions feels worse than being oppressed by any outside force.

I’ve called my doctor to inquire about going back on antidepressants. I have a prescription for Wellbutrin sitting in my patient file, but when I checked with local pharmacies, the cheapest price for the generic version is $130 for 30 days. (!!) My doctor will be calling me back tomorrow to discuss options. Should have figured that the antidepressant that works best for me isn’t one of the $4 generics that pharmacies offer.

Thank you all for your support on my last post. That virtual hug from so many was a very soothing feeling, and I see I’m not alone in fighting with this monster at the moment. I hope those of you who are also feeling the sting of depression can find the help you need, too.

Knowing there is this community of support is what keeps me coming back to blogging, even when I feel like I have nothing worth saying.

And because I do have a pathological need to end on a hopeful note, I will add that Aaron has another job interview tomorrow. It would be a good position for him with a great employer. Fingers are already crossed.



Toy Cah-ray-zee!

I’m so grateful that in the past two years there hasn’t been a single must-have toy that the under 5 set desires at any cost to their parents. We all remember the Tickle Me Elmo craze – thankfully I had no children at that point. I can’t imagine the anguish of parents actually going out of their way to obtain one of those red muppets so it could torture them with his maniacal laugh.

Remember the Cabbage Patch Kid craze of the early 80’s? Yeah, I was one of those kids. And I remember my grandmother went out in the pre-Christmas crowds to fight for one of those moon-faced dolls. I’m amazed she didn’t get trampled by the more aggressive parents – who knew grandma was so tough? At Christmas I unwrapped that yellow box, and got to hold my first (of many) Cabbage Patch dolls – her name was Madeline Eva. I still have that doll, and she still holds a place in my heart, even more so now because I know my grandmother put so much effort into making sure I got that special toy.

Would I do the same should that must-have, hard-to-find toy come along that captures Cordy’s attention? Of course! After all, Aaron and I have plenty of experience, after hunting down the rare PS2, Wii, and the Furby. (What? Can’t a woman in her mid-20’s want a Furby? They were cute!) Aaron has also been through his fair-share of doorbuster deal crowds the day after Thanksgiving. We can deal with the crushing crowds, the line jumpers, and the store-to-store searching. It’s the thrill of the hunt, right?

Sure, that toy might soon become some trinket tossed aside for the next obsession, but it also just might be the doll that still brings back warm memories every time she looks at it, 25 years later.

This post is part of the blog blast for the Parent Bloggers Network and sponsored by Hasbro and their Hot Summer Toy Event. Join in by writing a post before midnight tonight for your chance to win Hasbro toys and games!



Wait, I Have A Blog?

Oh yeah, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it? I suppose you’re probably thinking It’s been TWO DAYS since BlogHer ended, so where’s my update, lady! I get it – I’d probably be thinking the same thing, too, if my keyboard didn’t look like such an inviting pillow at the moment.

I had a lovely 5 hours of sleep last night, which would be fine in most cases, but considering it was 5 of the 6 total hours I had slept in the past 48 hours, you can see how I might be just a wee bit exhausted. Thanks to a very early morning flight on Monday, and the voice of my frugal grandmother somewhere in a corner of my brain tsk-tsking me Pay $200 for another night at the hotel when you’d have to leave it at 4am to catch your flight? Do you think you’re made of money? I spent the night in the airport, uploading pictures and waiting for the American Airlines ticket counter to open.

(That 6th hour of sleep was graciously provided by my friend Violet, who invited me back to her house after the conference on Sunday, feeding me fast food burritos and offering her guest room for a quick nap.)

A full recap is coming, but I came home to a vomiting three year old with a high fever (yet unusually clear in her language skills), so I’m on sick child duty today. And need to run to the grocery and do all of those other mundane tasks I forgot about while I was gallivanting around San Francisco like some kind of blogging superstar.

Oh, and TSA? Was it really necessary to confiscate the sealed jar of Jif peanut butter I accidentally left in my carry-on? How exactly am I furthering the terrorist cause? Killing people by clogging their arteries?

More to come…



I’m Laughing, But Not Sure I Should Be

A friend alerted me to these today:


They’re high-heeled crib shoes for babies. In other words, baby’s first pair of heels. Now, don’t go off the deep end yet – they’re not real heels. If a baby tries to stand on them, the heels collapse. They’re meant for fun, of course.

These are cute, and I’ll admit I laughed when I first saw them. But of course, I always wonder what message this is sending to little girls, especially at the hands of women who are obsessed with heels. Oh sure, the baby isn’t going to remember being dressed up in her leopard print heels, but her big sister might. Will she be wanting heels also? And then demanding to go see Sex and the City with you and your friends?

When I started junior high, the pressure to fit in really hit me, and I wanted to wear heels like the other girls. I begged and begged my mom to get me a pair of shoes with heels, preferably something larger than half an inch. She continued to refuse, until my first band performance, when we were required to dress up: black skirts, white blouses, and black dress shoes. I had outgrown my old dress shoes, and used this chance to pressure my mom into a pair of heels.

I found this beautiful pair of shiny black shoes with a two and a half inch heel. Mom said no way, naturally. But I begged, throwing in that all the other girls were wearing heels and I didn’t want to be the reject who didn’t have heels and yes, I’d like to go jump off that bridge with them, too.

My mom is a smart woman. She recognized a pre-teen teaching moment in the shoe section of Sears, and agreed to buy them. I got home and immediately took my new prized possession out of the box and slipped them on. I wobbled my way around the house, trying to keep my balance without looking down.

And five minutes later, as my legs ached and my toes burned from the pressure, I realized I did not want heels. But it was too late. My only pair of dress shoes for that school year had been purchased, and I had to live with my choice.

Five minutes at home was nothing compared to an hour and a half band performance. And I didn’t play an instrument that let me sit down – I played drums/xylophone. Each time I had to wear those shoes didn’t seem to lessen the blisters, the pain, and the thought that I was insane for thinking heels were a good idea. (And yes, the shoes fit well.)

I was so happy to get rid of them at the end of the school year. I still wore heels when I went to prom, and a few other occasions, but I generally wanted them to be shorter.

Now, I’ll admit to not being fashion forward. My fashion tends towards comfort than style most of the time. I haven’t willingly worn high heels in a long time. Even for my wedding, I wore silver sandals – I refused to be uncomfortable on my wedding day. This isn’t to say that I won’t wear heels at all, but an inch or so is my absolute max, and it has to be a chunky heel to prevent any chance of wobbling. Most of the time I prefer flat shoes. Go ahead, call me a fashion don’t or a hippie – my relaxed feet can take it.

For nursing school, we have a clinical at a different location each quarter. This quarter we were at an orthopedic surgery floor. Lots of people having total joint replacements, ankle stabilizations, corrective foot surgery, etc. Most of the men I cared for had the same start to their problems: sports. Many of the women I cared for also had the same start to their problems: wearing heels all the time. Suddenly my choice doesn’t seem so backwards, since flats are more fashionable than surgery scars.

So my reaction to these baby heels is that they’re cute, and should be used as the creators intended: to dress a baby girl in for one or two occasions as a good joke (hence the name Heelarious). But if you’re putting your infant daughter in them more than once every week or two, I think it’s time for a high heel intervention.

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