Barnmaven

So.

The conversation with the school went as well as can be expected.  Not great, but not bad.

I spoke with the principal about my frustration over the lack of communication.  I reiterated the importance of structure and of easing into change. She agreed I had a right to be upset.  We checked with the secretaries to see if anyone had confirmed the transportation department had the correct information.  No.  Of course not.  I guess I was expecting the school to understand that anxiety disorder is a real, actual problem.  That while I am doing my best to appear reasonable and not make enemies at my kids' school, they are really dealing with a pissed off parent.

I left with assurances that

a) The transportation department would be called

b) Any changes in classroom or teacher (which are expected in about a month) would be explained to me well beforehand so that I could have an opportunity to prepare my son

c) Any issues noted at school with my son's behavior or learning abilities would be communicatd to me promptly

I'm still not feeling satisfied, but I didn't yell at anyone ( I may have raised my voice a teensy little bit ) and even if the school doesn't follow through on everything I have asked, at least they are reminded once again that I am paying attention.

It seems at times that the school doesn't want to do more than they absolutely have to.  I don't blame them, they are understaffed and under-resourced.  That's not going to prevent me from seeking the best possible care for my children while they are attending classes there.

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Anxiety Disorder in children, like a lot of pediatric issues, doesn't look exactly like it does in adults.

When C is feeling anxious, he stops making eye contact.  He will have frequent tantrums and will have daily incidents where his sensory issues go off the charts.  For instance, this might involve him slapping himself in the head repeatedly and screaming that his "hair is falling down" or his eyes are "bothering me!"  He had a scab on his head that didn't heal for more than a year because he wouldn't stop picking at it constantly.  His frustration tolerance is nonexistent.  If a toy doesn't do what he wants it to or if it doesn't "look" right, he will scream and throw it.  We've had a lot of really good toys broken that way, so I tend to look for things that aren't breakable any more.

Sometimes I wish that my kids' educators could spend a week, or even an hour in my shoes.  That they could have been trapped in the car with me and my screaming child yesterday.  Maybe then they would take him and me more seriously.  Maybe then they would listen, REALLY listen when I talk about his needs and the best ways that we, his parents and his teachers, can meet them together, ways that we can help him be successful.

I respect our schools, our teachers and our administrative staff.  I think they have a really hard job to do and they do the best they can with limited resources.  But I also think this makes it easier for them to lump me into the "obnoxious parent" category without paying real attention to what I'm trying to convey.  Sometimes I feel like they think I'm making things up just so I can get better services or something.  Maybe that's just my own insecurity talking, I don't know.  But for once I'd like to get the feeling that the listening I'm getting isn't just reflective.

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The dogs got their paws on the hoodie my mom bought my daughter for school.  Apparently it was used in a tug of war, as I found it on the living room floor, with a sleeve ripped off.  Oh, the tears.  Fortunately they still had it at Sears.  I looked at the price tag - $34.00.  Ugh.  Oh, the tears.

 

Unexpected things

It would have been nice if we'd been told that they'd moved C to another kindergarten teacher.  It would have been nice if the school had updated the district transportation department that  he was not in afternoon kindergarten but in morning.  It would have been nice if at any step along the way someone at the school had listened to me.

Because?

When your child has anxiety disorder, you make the effort to be very structured.  Your child needs structure in order to cope.  The unexpected, which is difficult enough for the average individual, is torture for the child with anxiety disorder.

So when I made the effort to map out my son's day for him so that he would know what to expect?  Yeah.  Wasted effort.  We arrived to find he was not in the classroom he expected with the teacher he expected.  I had to have someone restrain him so I could leave him in class.

He expected to ride the bus home.  I gave this information to his principal, very explicitly.  Except that he didn't have a bus home BECAUSE NO ONE TOLD TRANSPORTATION HE WASN'T IN MORNING KINDERGARTEN.  So they assumed I must have meant the bus to the Unnamed Youth Organization that will providing his afterschool care beginning next week.  So my son WHO HAS ANXIETY DISORDER got stuck on a bus to someplace he wasn't expecting to go.  After spending three hours in a room he wasn't expecting to be in with a teacher he wasn't expecting to have and had never met.

This is what my head did about an hour ago:

UNACCEPTABLE.

For this mother, who didn't know where her son was and couldn't get through to anyone at the school on the phone after finding out from the transportation department that her child wasn't on a bus home because that bus home didn't exist.

For this sweet boy, whose first day of kindergarten was supposed to be fun and exciting, not scary and traumatizing.

When I arrived at the aftercare place to pick him up (they were really confused, not expecting him until next week) he was completely undone.  He didn't understand what he'd done wrong.

Needless to say, I'm girding my loins for a full-on confrontation with his school.  After I finish wiping my tears and maybe having a nap.

Ready to go

I get out the bag I stashed with the pencils, pens, erasers, sharpeners and glue sticks.  I get their new backpacks and lunch bags and write their names legibly in permanent marker.  I fill their pencil boxes with the necessary items.  I put kleenex and hand sanitizer in the front pockets for easy access.

I pick up my son's backpack.  This year it has a big 3-D picture of Lightning McQueen.  I wonder how long it will be before he's "too cool" for a Lightning McQueen backpack.  I stroke the picture, knowing that soon he will be graduating to Batman, Iron Man, and before long, just a regular old backpack, just like his sister graduated from Ariel and Hello Kitty to Hannah Montana.

Tomorrow he starts learning about peer pressure.  He starts hearing from 2nd and 3rd graders on the bus what's "cool" and what's "dumb."  My years of influence are waning and quickly.  I know I've done a good job, I know it.  I know I've done a good job with his sister, when the bully girl in her class offers to be her friend for her swim goggles and my daughter says "Why would I give you my goggles?  I don't like you."  I hope I've done and am doing everything I can so that my kids know that they are special and okay just the way they are.  That even if other kids tease them for things imagined or real and beyond their control, that they are wonderful and unique and magical.  But the years that they believe I am more right than their friends, those years are soon going to be far behind us.

God, please hold my hand just as tightly as I will hold his when I walk him to the bus stop for the very first time.  Please hold my son, his innocence, his beauty, his trust, hold him close and protect him.

Tomorrow, the real world.  Tomorrow.

Oxygen

I'm having a hard time remembering to breathe today.

Its not that there's too much to do, or rather, any more to do than there usually is - I'm always behind on things like housework, yardwork, filing.  Its the weight of the intangibles that sit heavy on my chest, making it a struggle to breathe calmly and keep the anxiety at bay.

Back to school night was last night.  A's teacher seems like she's going to be another gem; but its another year of trying to find the right words to explain all we've gone through and who my daughter is without sounding like a paranoid asshole parent.  Its hoping that the look I'm getting is one that means she realizes how wonderful and special my daughter is and that she'll work with me and with her to help her be successful and not that its the look that means "shut up already, lady, EVERY parent thinks their child has special needs."  You just never know.

Little man didn't want to go in to his classroom at first.  "There are girls in there, mommy.  I want to wait out here."  As excited as he seems to be to be starting kindergarten, the reality of it is a little overwhelming to him.   His teacher seemed tired and a little short, normal one would think for the start of the school year with five sets of parents standing around wanting to know why Little Billy is in AM or PM kinder when they specifically signed up for PM or AM.

I've got two sets of behavioral evals for the teachers to fill out once the kids have been in class for a month.  I'm always grateful for the time the teachers spend to do this for me;  I know they have a million other things they need to be doing - lesson plans, grading papers, taking straight shots of Jim Beam...

I'm anxious on behalf of my kids.  Anxious for how the other kids will relate to them, treat them.  Anxious about the things that were hard for me when I was their age.

And even though I know I don't have to worry...that it won't do any good...I worry.

But I don't have to worry.  They're going to be fine.

Me and my big mouth

So I mentioned before (Nobody's Perfect) that Mr. T doesn't eat things he's not supposed to.

I hate it when I open my mouth and heap steaming piles of vengeance on myself.  I form words and create curses.  I talk myself right into a damn corner.

Barbie's still alive, and the hot wheels are more in danger of being dismantled by C than by the dog.  But.

Paper.  Especially paper that you wish to save or which has important information.

Littlest Pet Shop toys, the smaller and the better.

Kleenex. Used.

One pink cable knit knee high sock.

One very sad panda.  All that remains is a little stuffing.

Its almost as if Lady decided to reincarnate in the new dog so that I wouldn't miss her so much.

I would at this point break out in the 'Thank God's' for the things he doesn't yet seem to have a penchant for chewing on , like cameras and computer cords and shoes...but then I'd be cursing myself further. So I never mentioned any of those things, mmmkay?

Next time remind me to keep my big mouth shut.

 

 

Impulse

A trail of bread crumbs, perhaps

Just you, your horse, a compass and a terrain map.  Your team of three to six people.  You may NOT use:  GPS, cell phone, any map other than the one provided you.  You may not hide the markers from another team.

On your terrain map, a number of large circles are drawn.

 

On the back of your map, 10 sets of three clues.

Inside each circle, the clues lead you to three reference points, each which is assigned a degree.  A pile of rocks, a stump with a rock on it, a soda bottle hanging from a tree.    Using the three points and your compass, you will triangulate to find a paper plate with a code written on it which you  must notate on your map.

Your goal: Don't get lost.  Find the most correct codes and return to base camp with the fastest time.

We started sometime at 9 am up in the woods on top of a mountain.  We finished sometime after two.  I'm going to guess we covered somewhere between 15 and 20 miles.   I am going to be very saddle-sore tomorrow, but thanks to our two other experienced team members Debbie and Megan, Michelle and I won on our first time trying Competitive Mounted Orienteering.

Most fun I've had on a horse in years.  Excuse me, I need to go soak my backside in some hot water and epsom salts.

First and last post on this subject

If you read me you know how I roll politically.  I don't use this space to make a huge amount of political noise, nor do I want to.  I have loved ones and relatives (read: in-laws) who are on different ends of the political spectrum, and that alone is sufficient reason for me to not wish to antagonize or offend you.

Today, I'm going to cross this line and so if you are going to no longer love me or read my blog because of this, then I am very sorry to have offended you, but this is something I want and need to say.

Very often when there is a controversial issue in the public eye, I lean toward the logical argument.  I lean toward the constitutional argument.  I'm drawn to the argument that while possibly rhetorical, is drawn from fact-based argument.

I've been watching and listening and thinking very much about the controversy in New York City over the group that is attempting to build a place of worship in near proximity to the site of the former Twin Towers.  A Mosque.  I've not commented much about it.  I don't wish to hurt or offend anyone.

My argument stems from a position of acceptance and love, but also from a strong dedication to the ideals upon which our country was founded.  I look at our first amendment rights, and I wonder why this is even an argument.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise of...

Thanks to this same first amendment, which goes on to protect the right of free speech, those who are vehemently opposed to the mosque's construction, have every right to express their concern and anger and...I want to use the word hate, but I don't want to offend.

I believe that the men who flew their planes into the towers on September 11, 2001, were no more "religious" than I believe that the guy on TV who is asking you to send him money for his "prayer ministry" is religious.  I believe there is a different between faith and religion.  I believe that the majority of Muslim Americans have the same American values that you and I share.  Because a few exceptions to this rule exist is no reason we should prevent people from worshiping in the way their faith dictates.  Timothy McVeigh was raised Roman Catholic, and he was a registered Republican.  Should we then prevent the Catholic Church from constructing a cathedral in Oklahoma City?  Should registered Republicans refrain from conducting political activities near the site of the bombed Federal Building?  When we take even one step down this slope, we end up restricting the rights of everyone.   Not too many hundreds of years ago Christians were conducting torture, pillage, murder and rape in the name of the Church.  If we restrict the right to worship for every denomination who has ever been involved in violence or intolerance, there'd be no churches in America.  Except for maybe the Scientologists, but I hear they're a cult and not a religion. (THAT WAS TONGUE IN CHEEK, DON'T GET MAD)

And so I start getting mad, and I can't understand why people don't get this. And I sort of lose any chance of making headway in the discussion because the very second you lose your temper you lose your audience.

And today, I read possibly the most lucid, ego-less and loving commentary imaginable on this issue.  Please, wherever you stand on this issue, go to the following link and read Faiqa's words.  Comment if you like.  Try and understand from a different point of view, one that has nothing to do with politicism or legality.  Her post and her words are the best piece I've read on this issue yet.  If we can come together in a place of understanding and acceptance, maybe we can start to heal this damnable rift.

Faiqa's Follow Up on Ground Zero

 

Assessed

Little C man had his readiness assessment for kindergarten today.

I had prepped the kids that we were going to the school.  C asks me, "We're going to A's school?"

"Well, yes, but it's going to be YOUR school now too."

His eyes widened.  "Really?  MY SCHOOL TOO?"

He chattered the entire way there in the car, all five minutes of it, and when we arrived he threw his seatbelt off before I had even taken the car out of gear and had his door open.  He thundered up the sidewalk, full force, to the doors.

Once we arrived in the classroom his enthusiasm faltered.  His teacher, Mrs. C, introduced herself and asked him to come in and sit down.  He did, but as he looked around the room with all of the things on the walls and the books and the size of it, I could see he was getting anxious and overwhelmed.  I quietly explained to Mrs. C about his anxiety disorder and that this might be scary for him.

She tried getting him to write his name.  He stared straight ahead and wouldn't look at her or talk.  She shifted through a few tasks, trying to warm him up, but no doing.  I knelt down next to him and got him finally to make eye contact with me.

"I guess this is a little scary, bud."  I held his cheeks gently, asking him to maintain the eye contact.  "Mrs. C just wants to spend a little time with you so you can show her all of the cool stuff you know.  When you start kindergarten in a week or two, she's going to be your teacher, and this is going to be your classroom."  He looked around, doubtfully.  I was beginning to feel the anxiety grow in my own chest, that he would refuse to participate, that his teacher's first impression of him was going to be of the kid who was different, difficult.  Hard to work with.

As we were talking, his sister, who had been in this same classroom the final third of her own kindergarten year, came in and started playing with some toys.  She sat down on the beanbag chairs on the other side of the room.

He looked at her.  He looked at me.  He wouldn't look at his teacher.

Finally, I asked his sister to go out in the hall to let her brother have some space.  I sat her down a ways away from the door so he couldn't hear her and gave her my phone to play games on. down the hall.  I was about to go back into the room, but  I heard Mrs. C talking to him, so I stopped, and peered through the crack between the door and the jamb.  He was looking at her, finally.  He nodded, then he started talking to her.  I hovered, holding my breath, just outside of his sight.  Before long he was reading her the entire alphabet, identifying all the numbers from one to thirty-one, and pretty much showing off his big-boy smarts. He wrote his name.  Finally, they were done.  I could exhale.

He's doing exactly what his sister did when she started at this school.  I forgot.

The more I back out of the picture, the better they do.  This is THEIR school.  THEIR territory.  When I'm in the room, they are used to me being in charge.  If I leave the room, they almost magically gain confidence.  For whatever reason, this is their dynamic and I have to honor it.

He's ready for kinder.  Without me.

Will we still have issues?  Maybe.  Will we need medication?  Maybe.  Its a big transition for a kid whose neurological makeup makes transitioning a huge deal.  But for the first time today I got the feeling he was going to be able to handle it.

 

He's going to be just fine.

The Thundering Silence

In the first months after J and I separated, life was so screamingly hectic that I waved goodbye to the kids as they left for their dad's place with a sigh of relief.  We had been living in chaos for a long time.  I treasured my quiet home, peaceful for the first time since we had moved in.  Two nights a week - Mondays and Fridays - I was all alone except for the animals, and the silence was...amazing.  Shocking.  Like the sudden sensation of the snow-fed river on a hot August day when you let go of the rope swing and plunge into the deep part.  At first painful, but incredibly uplifting.  You emerge from the water shouting joyfully, gasping in simultaneous pain and delight. 

Its been a year just this weekend, and over that time, the cold-water shock has worn off.  As winter turned into spring turned into early summer, it began to feel more like easing into cool sheets, or that heavy breath of relief when you take your shoes off at the end of the day.  Less rush, less noise.   Time to breathe and to think, time to organize and construct.  Time at least once very week to recharge my batteries by doing what I love. Gradually,though, I started recognizing a sense of emptiness creep in.  The quiet became overwhelming.

You don't have to be a good codpendent to be the kind of person who fills emptiness with a flurry of noise and activity, but it sure helps.  Its been pointed out to me in both gentle and not-so-gentle ways that I never seem able to sit still with a feeling.  (And hey, thanks for taking my inventory!)  When considering this, I have little choice other than to acknowledge it as truth.  I have always had this conviction that intense feelings were something to be avoided at all cost.  Starting to feel lonely?  Get up and clean something.  Weed.  Mow.  Wash.  Dry.  Sweep.  Exercise.  Drown out with television.  Bury it behind internet drama. And the list is endless, the ways in which I have cheated myself out of getting better. 

A very good therapist reminded me years ago that feelings are like waves.  They come, they peak, they pass.  If I remember this and just let them come and go, I will not drown in them. 

In recovery, Step 11 encourages us to sit quietly in prayer or meditation.  For those who believe in God or in a Higher Power, we use the time to seek God's will.  For the secular mindset, we sift through the emotions and the thoughts in the quietness, identify patterns and seek a better path.  In any case, the goal is not to escape feelings, but to use the quiet to embrace them and let them lead us to greater wisdom.

I had forgotten this, frankly.  I can overthink myself right out of a solution given enough time and opportunity. 

This week, my challenge to myself is to use silence constructively.  To sit with the feelings that come and do nothing to escape them.  Its hard work, but I think I'm up to it.