Barnmaven

A Breakfast Poem

Written by the Amazon girl

This is what

made me

tumble and

rumble and

cry

and why?

I stabbed

my fork on

my waffle

and

made the whole plate

fall

 

 

 

And the dogs were very grateful for the waffles. 

Conundrum at Amazon **UPDATED**

I was going to take a break from blogging today.  Actually, I was going to be at work, starting early, and wasn't going to have time for blogging today, but my poor sitter is in the ER after having a bad reaction to a new medication, and so I'm here with my kids, praying that she recovers quickly (and not just for selfish reasons).

Watching the sun turn the clouds pink in a deep blue early morning sky while I drink my coffee, I am chewing over yesterday's plethora of tweets and posts regarding Amazon's listing of a book written by a pedophile that apparently provides "advice" for other pedophiles on having (this really turns my stomach) "better" relationships with their victims and how to avoid being caught.  I say "apparently," because I am not going to read the book to see exactly what the author says, and I am not going to link to the page for the book because I don't wish to drive any more traffic to this guy, and I'm not even linking Amazon here, because I don't feel like sending them any more page hits today.  (They should be sending ME page hits in thanks for all the money I've thrown at them over the years, really.)

However.

This is one of those times where my morals and my convictions have a little tug of war with one another, and right now I'm not certain who is winning.

Background and context, for starters.  I've written about my birthmother and family.  I've actually submitted a piece to Violence Unsilenced that I compiled interjecting my own narrative with chunks of a manuscript that my sister Vicki sent me several years ago.  It is her own story of growing up with a stepfather who is a pedophile. At some point in the future, I hope, that piece will be published.

I have five siblings.  Four living.  I was given up for adoption, the rest of them were raised (using the term very loosely) by my birthmother. My sister was raped by her stepfather for the first time when she was around five years old. 

Here is what happened when she told her mother, in her own words:

She slapped me so hard across the face that I was knocked several feet backwards and fell to the floor.  She screamed at me, that I was a liar and sent me to my room.  I sobbed, hurting from the pain in my bottom and the pain in my heart, knowing that I was going to die.  He was going to kill me.  There was no one to stop him.  So I did what all good Christian girls did:  I prayed to God that I would die in my sleep before morning.

That was the longest night of my life.  Somewhere in the night I fell asleep.  When I woke up, the Monster was smiling down at me once more.  My heart was racing and I knew I was about to die and he just kept smiling.  He puts one hand on either side of my head holding me down by my long brown hair, and smiling the whole time, he said, ‘She didn’t believe you, she never will and if you ever try to tell again I will kill you.’  Then, like nothing ever happened, he walks to the door, opens it, and calmly says, ‘Breakfast is ready when you are.'

I had a younger brother.  I never met him.  He called me once, a few years ago and asked if we could meet. He was just out of prison and was looking for someone to give him a hand in getting back up on his feet. It was the only conversation I ever had with my brother. 

"I wish I could meet you, wish I could offer you some help, but I can't.  I have children."

He went to prison for raping a little girl.  While in prison he contracted HIV.  Look, I'm not stupid.  Statistically, the recidivism rate for men who molest boys is twice as high as for men who molest girls, but those statistics are based on convictions and not the actual number of crimes being committed, and who in hell could know what those statistics are? Who's to say my brother hadn't also molested boys?  And honestly, did it really matter?  I wasn't exposing my children to a convicted pedophile.  Period. 

Two years later, he died of complications from AIDS.  As sad as I feel for never having met my sibling, I still stand by my decision to protect my family.

Remember the incident back in 1993, when Ellie Nesler shot David Driver in the courtroom as he was being tried for raping her son?  She was my hero, then and now.  If anyone and I do mean ANYONE hurt one of my children, it would take more than a legal system to keep me from hurting that person.  I have no doubt whatsoever that I would kill to protect my kids.  As much as I believe in second chances, in following the law, in respecting our legal system, none of that reason could override the animal instinct that raises its head in me when I consider what I would do to someone who hurt my child.  I think I would be capable of just about anything, including violent murder.

So that's where I stand on pedophiles. Reason and logic don't apply.  Look, I know most pedophiles offend because someone hurt them when they were children.  I know they are mentally ill.  AND I DON'T CARE.  My reaction is visceral.  I am being as honest as I can here. 

As a mother, as a human being who believes that the death penalty is a suitable punishment for people who rape children, I want that book GONE.  OFF THE SHELVES.  I don't want to give Amazon another dime of my money so long as they will carry that kind of filth on their website. 

And then there's the other thing.  The part where I believe in the constitution and the right of free speech.  If Amazon can carry a book that teaches people how to make bombs, if I believe that our constitution also protects that kind of speech, then I have to agree that so long as that vile piece of filth that passes for a book contains nothing that falls within the legally defined boundary of child pornography, so long as it contains no evidence of someone actually committing a crime in its pages, so long as it is theory and not practice, then it may be published and sold.  We can't call for it to be burned or banned or torn into little tiny shreds and stomped on with manure-covered jackboots.

Can we?

I don't know.

I'm torn.

I was so proud when Google said they were going to pull out of China because China's policy on free speech was in direct opposition to the company's values and to the principles of democracy and freedom.  So disappointed when they caved in to the almighty dollar.

Should I be proud of Amazon if they take the logical and legal position that free speech is a protected right and that as a seller of books, they take no position on whether a book ought to be listed so long as it doesn't violate the boundaries of the law?

Or should I be proud of Amazon if, after reviewing the situation, decides that they will concede to the majority opinion of their customers (and the weight of the consumer dollar) and pull the book?

You tell me.  What do you think is the right thing for Amazon to do?

 **UPDATE**

Amazon has removed the book from their online catalog.  Good choice.

Two things to add. 

First:  My friend Drew shared a quote with me on FB that is now being added to my favorite quotes list:  “I have always been among those who believed that the greatest freedom of speech was the greatest safety, because if a man is a fool, the best thing to do is to encourage him to advertise the fact by speaking”
~Woodrow T. Wilson

Second:  There is a great discussion going on in the comments over at Adam Avitable's blog about this issues.   Come join in.

 

Maybe its all been said

I get funny about this blogging thing sometimes. 

My post about the completely antithetical reasons I do this crazy thing, there were things I left out.  The list of reasons why I almost don't blog.  Or the reasons why I'm not sure I should.

The continually recurring discussion on the limits of what parents should say about their children in public forums, that gives me pause at times.  Some people are fervently against posting anything about your children, including pictures.  Some people share every detail about their children, including their names, and they dish the dirt about their spouse or partner in delicious detail.  And I fall somewhere in between there, of course I do.  I went through my blog some months ago and weeded out my kids names from every post I had written.  But their pictures are here, and I share a lot of information about the struggles we have with their disorders.  I don't do it to invade their privacy, and there is much more that happens in our day to day lives that doesn't make these pages than things that do.   But don't think for a moment that it doesn't cross my mind that someday some stranger or even one of my children might read what I've written and mistake my words for complaining about our life.  Know without question that I love my kids and I've been blessed by every single day since they were born, even the days where we were all so tired and beat up from the battles that we felt like giving up.  But still.  It worries me sometimes, what I put out here. For many reasons, some of which I can't even put in words.

The bigger thing that strikes me, though, is that there are so many of us here, putting our lives up on the screen.  We live in a world where one no longer needs to have a publisher to get your words seen by others.  And for every A-lister whose posts are ready by hundreds and thousands and reposted on networks, there are thousands of others of us out here who are sitting at our keyboards, composing our thoughts, putting something out there that seemed important to us to say at the time.  More than once I've read a blog post by another blogger where I either think, "yeah, I think that way all the time too, I wish I'd written about it first" or "huh, I just blogged pretty much the same thing the other day/I saw another blog post by someone else that said pretty close to this."  And then my mind starts creating images of millions of books on  millions of shelves and millions of blogs on millions of screens, and that's where my fingers get cold and numb and I realize that I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY HERE THAT PROBABLY HASN'T BEEN SAID A THOUSAND TIMES BY SOMEONE ELSE ALREADY. 

Of course I like to think my ideas are original.  I like to think I'm the only person who's ever written about what its like to parent kids with problems, the only person who's ever gone into therapy for codependent behavior, the only person who's ever...done everything that I've done.  But of course I'm not. Not the only one.

And then I wonder if anything that I write carries any importance whatsoever.  Why can't I just let all those other thousands of folks who are saying the exact same things I am, why can't I just let them do this and find another pond to swim in?

But I don't.  And I probably won't.  At the end of the day, whether 10 people read this post or 100 (or even none), the goal was never to prove that I'm unique.  It was just to share something with you, with the world.  Even if it has already been said.

 

Motherlode

Keep up on the "don't jinx me" part and I won't have to dump you like a hot rock, internet.  Seriously.  You're doing great, now just hold your breath and stand on one foot and don't don't DON'T look down.

Which was the best part of yesterday?  Where the babysitter (I hate that term it sounds so...demeaning.  Governess?  Nanny?) showed up on time to pick up my son.  Noticed his teacher being dismissive of him when he was trying to tell her he left his coat in the room.  Standing in the cold for twenty minutes with him while she took her damn sweet time (and wouldn't let him go in the classroom without her, because, I suppose, he's dangerous?)?  Took him to McDonald's and waited while he went down the slide in the playground a million times, that she did my daughter's homework with her, or got dinner for all of us or that she let my dogs out so they didn't have to be in their crates all day? 

It was none of those things.

The best part, the VERY BEST PART OF YESTERDAY was when she asked the teacher for the form to be a volunteer in my son's classroom.  Because, as she explained to me later, she didn't think his teacher was giving him the attention he needed and that it would be very helpful to him to have someone in the classroom who understood his behaviors and could advocate for him.

I don't have to explain my children to her because she already gets them, raised a few just like them on her own and fostered or took in off the streets a bunch more.  She's been through the IEP's and the therapy and the medications and the school system, she knows how to use her voice to advocate for a child who is being seen as a behavior and not a child in need of help.

There is an angel in my house.  She may be disguised as a curly-haired woman of middle years with a lovely smile and gentle hands, but she an angel she is.

Please, God, let this be the one who stays.  Because I'm already her biggest fan. 

Qualities that count

When envisioning the type of person I thought would make a perfect caregiver for my kids, there were many obvious criteria.  After checking off "breathing" and "possibly hard of hearing" (helpful for saving ones' sanity in this house), there were several attributes I knew I wanted but was not sure I could find.

I wanted someone who had experience in dealing with kids like mine.  Its hard to put together an ad for a babysitter when you need someone with the patience of Job.  Its not all the time, but when your child has a sudden anxiety attack that makes him start trying to put his fingernails through his eyelids, patience is a big thing.  And I knew full well that when I wrote the terms "ADHD" and "Bipolar" in my ad, I was going to scare away pretty much everyone who might be looking for a part time childcare job.

I wanted someone who either likes big, scary dogs, or at least doesn't mind them, because if they're not comfortable with this:

 (I know, scary, right?)

...then they'd probably quit after the first five minutes.

And really after "Patience of Job" and "Must Love Dogs," there's not that much more to it.  Its not brain surgery, loving my kids.  It just takes the right kind of person.

 

I think I found her.

 

Shhhhhhhh, don't jinx it.

 

I'm not saying any more than this because, you know I was so excited about the last one and we all know how well THAT went.  Suffice it to say, I can check "finding a babysitter" off the to-do list for this week.  God, mysterious as ever, sends blessings in the midst of life-quakes, as if to remind me that I'm not alone in this crazy thing.

My brain is cool

C:  Mommy, I can see my bones!

Me:  ....

C:  And if I turn my eyes around I can see my BRAIN!

Me:  Your brain?  Does it look gross? 

C:  No, it looks COOL.

C:  Mommy, can you see YOUR brain?

Me:  Ummm, no.

 

* I really hate to think how much he resembles a young Hannibal Lecter.  And? This is not gonna help me hire a babysitter.

The one where I claim, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I'm not losing this battle

So let's see, where were we?

The teacher that can't be bothered to "trouble shoot" (direct quote) my son sent him home after a mere half an hour in kindergarten on Tuesday.

My emails to the Principal and the counselor have gone unanswered, though I finally received a return phone call from the assistant director of special services with the school district, who I resorted to calling Tuesday afternoon.  Since I feel my concerns aren't being addressed, I've taken the liberty of elevating things.  I am not certain this is a good move or not; by getting the district involved I risk alienating the people I am counting on to help my son.  On the flip side of that  penny, I fear if I don't take some sort of action to push things along, we might make it through the entire year of kindergarten without my son learning anything more than the fact that his teacher can't spell his name right.

Yes, that's correct.  His teacher sent home a sheet for the children to practice writing their names.  She was kind enough to give them a model to follow at the top of the sheet...except she spelled my son's name incorrectly.   After everything else that has happened it was...I can't even find the words.  Insulting?  Last straw?  Proof?  Don't know.

There's something about talking to school administrators, who must be very carefula bout how they choose their words in order to avoid any appearance of acting outside of rules and regulations (and federal laws) that makes me feel somehow shamed.  As if my son's problems are MY fault.  The result of poor parenting.  Because maybe when he was born I just took a big ole' hypodermic needle and shot him up full of anxiety and ADHD and manic-depressive illness.  Because, you know, that sounded like FUN.  And so, feeling somewhat on edge from the phone call I had with the school this afternoon, I trudged happily off to choir practice knowing that it would make me feel better to do that and that I could then come home, throw the little guy in the tub (his sister's at their dad's) and relax with a nice glass of H3 Cab. 

That was a very good plan, until I sat down with my freshly poured glass of wine at this computer and opened my email. 

"I wanted to talk to you in person but it’s hard to find a moment to do that without little ears around. So, forgive the email. I know time is of the essence. I’m sorry to put  you in this position but I have decided that it’s best that I do not continue watching _____ & _____. I didn’t want to quit on you or the kids, but I think it might be for the best. ______ & ______ are great kids and I see the good in them. However, it is overwhelming and I am thinking of my little ones. _______ is impressionable and copies [sic] everything older kids do; we just feel that it’s best to go with our instincts on this.

I regret putting you in this position but I also need to be honest with you. If it was just me watching _____ & _____ (without my little ones); I wouldn’t mind. However, I realize now that I need to look out for their best interests.

I plan on still watching them tomorrow (as you did pay me through this week), and maybe that can give you the weekend to make other arrangements?"

Ah.

I see.  My kids are "great kids" but your kids are impressionable, and so what, you don't want them to COPY THE KID WITH ADHD.  Which I get, really I do, but maybe you should have thought of that BEFORE YOU ACCEPTED THE FUCKING JOB.  I totally understand how being involved with me and my broken, special children isn't in the best interests of ANYONE.  I do.  And I forgive you for it.  And no, you don't need to watch them tomorrow, dear lady, because the last thing I want to do is send my children back to a home where the adult in charge thinks that they are a BAD INFLUENCE.   We get enough of that everywhere else, thank you very much.

And as you might guess, I am now sipping that nice glass of cabernet, plotting my revenge trying to wade through all of the anger and guilt and shame in my head and figure out just what on God's green earth I am going to do next.  I am simultaneously thanking that same God for my boss, who when I called him trying to explain what was happening without dissolving into miserable tears, reassured me that I was valued, appreciated, and to please not worry about taking a day tomorrow to try and solve this problem.  To not worry about doing anything that was needed to take care of my family.

And then I came here to post, and I read the really supportive comments a few of you really amazing people have left for me on the last couple of epistles, and I know that I am not alone.  I know that I am not the only person who is trying to make chocolate chip cookies out of a steaming pile of dog poop, and I know that this is not the worst thing ever that could happen, even if it feels like it right at this very moment.

And I am not giving up.  I am not going to concede that my child has no value, regardless of what some educators and caregivers might think.  Yes, he can be terribly difficult.  Annoying.  Crazymaking.  He is also adorable and loving and articulate and SMART oh my God smart, and he has the best smile in all the world.  When we do songs and stories at night, as I tuck him in, we do a hug, he kisses me on the cheek, and I say "I love you, C."  "I love you too, Mommy."  "I love you more."  "No, Mommy, I love YOU more."  "I love you more than anything, C."  "Well, I love you more than the whole EVERYTHING, Mommy." 

You win, buddy.  You win.

 

Difference of opinion

Define “success” for me, will you?

From the first glimmer of understanding that we were facing issues most families never have to, I have been whittling the meaning down to its bare-bones minimum.  Success no longer means my perfectly behaved,  beautifully dressed offspring dutifully march off to school each day, where they earn top grades in their classrooms, eagerly complete their studies and excel at athletic endeavors whilst simultaneously keeping their rooms clean and participating in dinnertime conversations about poetry and politics.

I find myself somewhat at odds these days with my son’s teacher over what it means for him to be “successful.”

Over the course of several email exchanges, a pattern emerges that I find profoundly disturbing.  As I take my son’s hand and we tiptoe through this murky maze of medicines and doctors and behavioral modification, I don’t dare seek a magic bullet.  I look instead for ways to improve the here and now, incrementally.  Even if the day is an off day in many respects, each exchange and interaction can be measured singly and when the mark falls on the high side of the curve, I whisper hopefully to myself, “success.”   I hope and pray for each success to be followed by more successes, until we begin to have patterns where more things go well than ill, more smiles appear than tears, more time is spent enjoying life and each other than is spent getting through tantrums and anxiety-related sensory outbursts.

Every moment where a question is asked and the answer is spoken sweetly and not screamed is an occasion to smile and appreciate.

Unless you happen to be the teacher of my child.  Who, as requested, dutifully sends emails marking daily incidents and behaviors, grimly outlining each failure without remarking on the ways in which improvement exists.  As if there is none.  A narrative of a field trip, wherein his distaste for wet pumpkins was noted and his desire to go on carnival rides rather than follow the other children into the maze, his inability to sit still during activities and his crying issues home on the bus were all noted, without acknowledging that not once during this trip did my child act aggressively, that nearly every instance of reluctance and difficult behavior was able to be resolved without my child having a complete meltdown, in which NONE of these ragingly terrific successes were even mentioned.  Or thought to be mentioned.  And when the successes were gently pointed out by a proud mother, the response was along the line of the teacher having other children to deal with and not having the time to understand the “why’s” of my son’s behavior.

Combined with a notable instance or two of less-than-friendly demeanor toward my son and I during a morning dropoff (notably different than the friendliness expressed at the IEP team meeting, in front of the principal, counselor and school nurse), I begin to draw the conclusion that this woman is less interested in the best interests of my son and more interested in maintaining harmony in her classroom.  Its not that I don’t get that, but its rather that I don’t care.  My interest is in having my son be cared for in the school environment in a way that is conducive to his success as a person and as a student.

I don’t know how to navigate the chasm between what I see and what she sees.  I don’t know how to make her like my son.  I don’t know how to help her see the child and not the behavior.  I try to express this to the counselor and to the other folks on the IEP team, but I don’t feel like I’m taken seriously.

I suppose at this juncture, I’m better off buying lottery tickets in the hopes of a private school placement when my numbers are drawn.  I’m not giving up, though.  Not by a long shot.

I do this because

I blog because there are words exploding in my head and I must put them somewhere.

I blog because there are no words at all and maybe if I start writing they will come.

I blog because I want you to know who I am.

I blog because I want to be someone I’m not and I want you to like that person.

I blog so that all of the people who were once in my life and left me behind will see all that they missed.

I blog so that all the people who are still in my life will know sometimes what I’m thinking even if I can’t say it to them; so that the people who might be thinking of being in my life will understand what they’re getting into and run while there’s still time.

I blog because I want to write well and I don’t, and in the hopes that the practice of the writing itself will help me to write better.

I blog because I really wanted to write a book and it won’t come out of me.

I blog because I want to share stories of hope and experience with the parents of other children like mine.

I blog because I hope those other parents will give me some hope to cling to.

I blog because I feel alone and I think you might feel that way too, so that when you read my words we might feel less alone together.

I blog because I’d rather be alone because sometimes being with other people is scary.

I blog because something funny happened and I have to tell you about it.

I blog because I want to turn something awful into something funny so that maybe when you laugh about it I will be able to also.

I blog so that if you only know me in one part of my life, you’ll see that I’m not the person you think I am.

I blog because I think if you know me and you don’t like me that maybe if I share a little of myself with you, you’ll change your mind.

I blog because I want you to think I’m smart and strong.

I blog because I want you to understand that I’m insecure and afraid.

I blog because when I look back on the things I wrote a week or a month or a year ago, sometimes I don’t recognize the woman who wrote those things and I realize my that I know both more and less about myself than I think I do.

I blog so that someday when I forget what I know, or need to remember what I didn’t know, I can come back and be reminded.

Wasn't like this 40 years ago.

A!  Come on, we're walking THIS way!

C, wait for your sister.

A, walk faster!  No, you don't need to be embarrassed to be seen with your brother.

C, stop crying, you can ring the next doorbell.

No, saying "Happy Halloween" to the lady is not the same as saying "Thank you."

THREE pieces of candy.  That's IT. 

OK, four.  But you have to brush your teeth for two extra minutes.

WHY IS THE KITCHEN STOOL NEXT TO THE CHINA HUTCH?  How many more pieces of candy did you take? 

Time for bed!

Why are you out of bed?  No, I'm not eating chocolate.  Um, no, that's not an almond joy wrapper.

Come on, don't be mad.  You don't like those anyway. 

Yes, its blurry.  Damn camera phone.  A is Hannah Montana, minus blonde wig.  C is Optimus Prime, but he refused to wear the mask.  I was dressed as single mother walking a dog.  I used an actual dog, not a pretend one.  Highly successful costume. Everyone could tell that's exactly what I was dressed as.