Balls of steel, hearts of gold

Confession: I haven’t had the balls to phone the respite care centre yet.

The slip of paper with the phone number is *still* next to the phone on my bedside table. We’re having a pistol duel, a staring contest.

Why is this simple task so very hard? I’m procrastinating, obviously.

“I have an article I need to get written by 4pm.”

“No point setting up the appointment today, we can only go through for a visit next week – so I’ll phone then.”

And ridiculously: “We have a kiddies birthday party on Saturday, so no can do.”

STACEY, THIS IS YOUR CONSCIENCE SPEAKING. DIAL THE NUMBER! DO IT, LADY GUY.

Shut up, conscience.

In the meantime, while we’re living under the cloud of finding the right kind of full-time care for Travis, life has been happening. Life – always butting in and demanding your attention.

My usually shy and clingy one-year-old, Ryan the Mighty Squish, started nursery school a few days ago and he is in heaven. His teacher marvels, “And you say he’s never been to school or day care before?” She says she’s never once heard him cry. Odd, because when I collect him at 2pm to bring him home Ryan throws a five-star hissy fit as I buckle him into the car seat.

Part of me is chest-puffed-out-proud, because for the first time ever, I’m the mother of the ‘easy kid’ at school. And another part of me feels ashamed, because Ryan has trumpeted loud and clear that he HATES coming home. I can understand why.

Also, I went to see a counsellor yesterday. Not a psychologist or a happy pill dispenser. Just a Harley-Davidson driving reverend that kicked off his slip-slops (true story), listened to my tale of woe and offered me insights. Not of the biblical variety. Just nuggets of wisdom. A spoonful of clarity.

I didn’t realise how badly I needed to just blah-and-blah-and-snivel-and-blah-and… laugh at myself. For being such a snivelling blah-blaher.

The got-her-shit-together Stacey is making a comeback. A great deal of that is because I am writing again. The commissions have been rolling in, the keys on my keyboard are toasty beneath my fingertips, and I am happy as a librarian on a wheelie ladder.

More news: on Monday we are finding out the sex of baby number three, which I have dubbed the Royal Pickle for blogging purposes, and because NOBODY PUTS BABY IN A CORNER. I’m talking to you royal carrot-smugglers, William and Kate, and the Kayne-Kardashian sideshow circus.

Hello! There is a baby of the Lionheart clan being born here! Third in line to the Crazy Throne. I’ll thank you to hand that spotlight over. Sidenote: we’re selling photos of the birth for R250 000 if You magazine is interested. I’m just putting that out there.

Also, thank you readers so much for the comments, tweets, emails and phone calls this last week. Some of you shared your stories of losing a loved one to suicide. Others are also having their marriage-wagons shaken on the bumpy road of raising a special needs child.

And more still offered names and stories of facilities we should look into for Travis. (Try Google ‘special needs care’ or ‘mentally handicapped facility’ or ‘respite care Johannesburg’ - you come up with precious little to go on, so thank you for the leads.)

Okay. Back to staring down that phone number.