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Many of us in the Sandwich Generation are dealing with parents in various stages of dementia or Alzheimers, conditions about which little is known. Today, we read in the New York Times that two leading authorities are updating the diagnostic guidelines, as part of a larger trend towards recognizing the illness earlier than ever before.

For the first time in 27 years, the definition of Alzheimer’s disease is being recast in new medical guidelines that reflect fast-mounting evidence that it begins ravaging the brain years before the symptoms of dementia.

The guidelines, to be issued Tuesday by the National Institute on Aging and the Alzheimer’s Association, divide the disease into three stages: a phase when dementia has developed, a middle phase in which mild problems emerge but daily functions can still be performed, and the most recently discovered phase, in which no symptoms are evident but changes are brewing in the brain.

The article goes on to explain that this change is also being contemplated in Congress, as a new bill seeks to set new diagnostic codes for pre-diagnosis that would involve consultations and education sessions with the family, since family support is shown to improve outcomes.

Though this is not a diagnosis we are dealing with in our own family, that’s only with a giant “YET”, and steps like these may prove very important as my mother and my grandmother continue down the road…

Read the full article here, and see the NYT’s excellent blog on aging, The New Old Age. And if you have thoughts on the new guidelines, or anything else, let me know in the comments below!

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Spent a good ten minutes watching out the window as the monkey boy drew spring’s first sidewalk chalk masterpiece… I love how intent he is as he makes each swirl and dash. So thoughtful and focused and fully absorbed in the process of creating, his mouth pursed in concentration and completely unaware of my presence just over his shoulder.

The photos don’t come out well through our old windows so I eventually had to head out to get a shot of the artist at work.

Seriously, it’s 12:30 and I’m exhausted, but I’m still sitting here watching yet another episode of How I Met Your Mother… geez!

We’re counting down the days now – leaving for grandma’s house on Saturday, so of course, the house is in full-on mid-packing mess… hoping to get it back to some semblance of order before we head to the airport.

I just read Tina Fey’s Prayer for Her Daughter over at Momastery, and it’s both HILARIOUS and so, deeply true… I could easily swap out the girl stuff for boy stuff and viola, the exact prayer I say for my own son…

Here’s a tidbit:

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

But you have to go and read the whole thing, which is excerpted from Tina Fey’s new book, Bossypants (2011)

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Nothing says happy birthday like a giant, smiling seafood crepe. Especially when the only reason you’re at the crazy Russian crepes place (and tea house!)  is because your crazy friends love you and will go along with anything for the birthday girl!

The best part – even better than the grinning crepes – was the people watching! Everyone from Hipster wannabes to dark Russian types fingerings their beards and arguing over philosophy.  And let’s not forget the bottle blonde in the Sharon Stone-short dress that was so covered with sparkle that it made our eyes hurt!

All in all a fun way to celebrate an otherwise grim birthday.

“I want music!” the monkey-boy says as we drive home from school, so I turn on the radio. Of course, it’s already pre-set to one of my Top-40 stations, and before I can turn the knob he hears the thumpa-thumpa of dance music that he seems to love (along with hard rock, folk music, and jazz)

“That one,” he shouts happily. “I want that one!”

But of course, I’ve already recognized the lyrics – Rihanna’s latest song, “S&M”. I’m grimacing before I can even reach to change the station.

“No honey, that’s not a good one to listen to…” as he begins to wail. “Let’s find the classic rock station instead.”

Inside, I’m seething – what in the world possesses these stations to play that song in the middle of the day? In the morning, even, when they KNOW kids are in the car on the way to school? And what’s wrong with that strumpet, Rihanna (who I otherwise love) – what’s gotten into her? It’s ridiculous! Shocking! Incendiary, even!

But then, just as I’m enjoying the moral outrage coursing through my veins, a song pops into my head.  A sweet little tune from 1979 that I sang gleefully in what would now be called my “tween” years – Whip in My Valise, by Adam and the Antz  – and let me tell you, that was no kid’s lullaby!

Among the lyrics: “Your sadistic suits my masochistic…” and “who taught you to torture…” 

So, yeah, great stuff for a 10, 11 year old kid to have been listening to. And I guess I turned out okay. (Okay, that may be up for debate, but that’s another post)

But geez – my kid’s 4!! I don’t want him listening to Rihanna singing about what the air smells like, and what excites her! So I turn the dial and find another station where the lyrics are at least a little more subtle, convincing him that this new one is way more cool than the other one because of the loud drums in it, and I drive on, caught between righteousness and hypocrisy, but still humming along to Adam Ant…

The monkeyboy fell asleep in the car on the way back from my weight watcher’s meeting (yes, me and Jennifer Hudson, we’re tight like that), so I had to carry him into the house, only to realize when I got upstairs that I hadn’t yet dried his sheets from the morning’s bloody nose incident. (seriously, it’s like a horror movie around here lately with his nosebleeds – who knew a little nose could have that much blood? But, I digress…)

So with nowhere to set the sleeping boy down while I finished the laundry, I tucked him into my bed, on my pillow, all curled up with his loveys and looking as content as can be.

Just now I finally finished making his bed and we made the transfer from our bed to his, scooping him up and carefully tucking him back in with his freshly laundered sheets (and extra protective layer underneath.)

After giving him some kisses and last adoring looks, we left his room and headed across the hall to ours, where we both promptly dived into the bed to lay our heads against where the prince had been, soaking up his warmth and his scent just like we did when he was a baby… so sweet, his little sweaty smell that he leaves behind, like love must smell, right? If only he weren’t such a restless billygoat when he’s sleeping, we’d keep that sweet thing in our bed all the time… but at least tonight we got to see him snuggled under our giant comforter, and feel his warmth left behind in the pillows… sweetness!

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