Barnmaven

Important questions

For about a year and a half now I've attended an Episcopal church in my area.  I love being Episcopalians.  I think of us as the aging hippies of Christianity, the liberal heathen Christians who by some other standards might be headed on a fast handcart to a very warm place.  While the Anglican church itself has some disagreement over a few key issues, we are a church whose doors are open to all.  That openness and expressed belief that God loves every single person is what drew me back to them, the church of my childhood.

Now, I would guess that the average age of our small congregation is about 65.  I sing in the church choir and except for me and one other guy whose mother-in-law also is in the choir, everyone else is well past retirement age, as are most of the people that sit in our congregation on Sundays.   I love our small church.  I love our little choir.  Even if we're not loaded with musical talent, we enjoy what we do and are all committed to showing up every Wednesday and Sunday and making a joyful noise.

A few months ago our priest left us to go pastor a larger congregation in a larger city west of us.  Until the vestry is ready to call a new priest, we have had visiting priests.  For the most part these are retired priests who supplement their retirement by filling in at churches as needed.  The priest we've had most often is a really sweet older gentleman. I enjoy his sincerity and his delivery when he takes us through the ecumenical rites and shares a sermon. 

Every year our choir, along with anywhere from ten to fifteen other choirs in the area participate in a Christmas choral festival.  The offering from this event goes to a local charity, typically the food bank.  We had easily the smallest choir participating this year, and so we found a song that was perfectly suited for us.  It included a brief solo, and I was asked to sing the part.  I won't be shy, I do sing and I sing pretty well.  The solo was right in my vocal range and it was a great fit for me.  The night of the choral festival the song came off just beautifully, not just my solo but really, the whole song.  We (and I) received many compliments and expressions of appreciation.   In order for our own congregation to hear the song, we also included it as the offertory anthem Christmas eve and then the following Sunday as well.  That Sunday, the priest I mentioned above was our visiting priest.

On that last Sunday, after the recessional, we all filed out of church.  As I came up to the priest, he grabbed my hand and pulled me close to speak quietly.  "I only want to know one thing," he said.

Of course, my mind filled in all the questions I imagined he might ask:

    What a lovely voice you have.  Did you take singing lessons?

    Have you always had such a talent for music?

    I know a talent agent, would you like his number?

Instead, he pulled me down a little lower so he could reach up and tap his forefinger on the dream catcher tattooed on the back of my neck. 

"How much did that hurt?"

 

We have a plan

Sometimes I feel like the White Rabbit, running from place to place, checking my watch, frowning and rubbing my forehead over how behind I am and worried over all that needs doing.  Someone will kindly mention a chore or task they notice needs to be taken care of and all I can say is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll get to it.  When I have time."  or "When I have money."  And as neither of those commodities appear anywhere immediately on the horizon, I putter and mumble.  And cope.

Nonetheless, I am able to focus on the immediate needs and so long as I can hold this car together with string and paperclips, she'll drive.

I've got a phone meeting with Social Security next week.  I'm trying to get SSI for C, which would give me the capital to get him in with a local therapist who is probably the best we could find here for what my son needs.  Since he's not in my insurance plan's network, the out of pocket is prohibitive for us.  The extra assistance would make a big difference for him.

His IEP team gathered yesterday and I signed off on a draft plan for him. 

Our goals for the next months are simple.  There are three:

C will follow directions two out of three times, which I guess would be an immense improvement over "Zero out of infinity-thousand times."

C will learn to limit his disruptive behavior, for which his fellow students will be grateful.

C will join group activity without continuous teacher prompting.  He currently has difficulty participating in circle time and group crafts.  Part of the problem is that he is visually overstimulated, so if someone is next to him or behind him, his attention is drawn to the distraction and not to the work at hand.  He is so easily overwhelmed by too much noise and activity that many of the things that most kids consider to be fun are just painful for him.  Unfortunately he often reacts to the stimulation by provoking the students who's inadvertently snagged his attention.  We're working on that.

He'll have resource room time daily, and be in his regular classroom the rest of the time.  His teacher will receive support from the occupational therapist in strategies and tools to help him with his sensory issues. 

Throughout the day he'll get breaks for "heavy work" and movement activities and have access to support staff, a "buddy classroom," self-controlled activities and sensory materials on an as-needed basis.  Periodically the school psychologist will observe him in the classroom setting to assess his progress.

He'll also have accommodations for state-mandated testing and he'll get transportation.  His grades will be based on effort and work completed and determined by his teacher and his special education teacher.

At the meeting, his teacher showed some materials she's made to help him assess his own success throughout the day.  She's made a visual representation of regular activities, and for each, C chooses a happy face, a neutral face or a sad face to affix below the activity to indicate if his participation or following of instruction/expectation was good, OK or not successful.  She keeps the completed sheets as a record of his progress.  Its heartwarming to me to see how engaged and enthusiastic a participant she has become in this Grand Plan to help my son.

As plans go, I suppose this is a good enough one to start with.  I had hoped it would contain the secret formula to releasing his innate abilities and identify him as a college-ready genius.  I think, though, that I can be content with "following directions two out of three time."  Start small, right?

I wish I had an IEP team to help me make a plan for all the stuff I need to do.

The Fall

 

i plummet, soul-pierc'd

into blinding light

shut my eyes against fear

grit my teeth

let go.

 

i flew once - time long-since passed.

hit bottom

(not a landing- a splatter)

lessons were learned

or maybe they weren't and i repeat them now?

i fall backward

and pray

you'll catch me.

Spring fever, I has it.

Two reasons I might not write regularly:

1.  I have nothing to say

2.  I have too much to say

At the moment, I'm squarely tied on these two fronts.  There is so much happening, the pace of life these days seems to be at breakneck speed, and I'm coping with a great deal of emotional change and growth.  Understand, please, that all of this is positive.  And do take that pin away from my bubble, I'm not anywhere near ready to have it burst quite yet.

Over the last few weeks we've been mostly blessed, weather-wise.  A few weekends ago, on a day so sunny and pretty it almost seemed that we were having spring in the middle of January, I got to hit the trail for the first time in 2011 with my wonderful friend Michelle.  We had mostly a terrific ride, and Bugs was not nearly as hell-bent on charging out as I thought he might after a few months of inactivity.  However, we need to fine-tune his Alarm! meter.  We managed about halfway through the ride to flush a grouse, practically under his nose.   Instead of going back or straight up, Bugs went sideways.  I, sadly, did not.  So now its three days a week at the chiropractor, starting to walk straight again finally.  As if in sympathy, Bugs developed a limp this week requiring twice-a-day soaks in warm water and epsom salts and anti-inflammatories.  We're both much better.

That's not really what's kept me from blogging, though.  Blame it on him. 

Do you know that feeling of absolute rightness that comes when you are around someone who likes you just the way you are?  Not pretend-likes-you but really reallylikes you?  And you like them the same?  And everything is easy and calm and you can tell your deepest darkest secrets and fears and instead of taking it personally or thinking you expect them to fix you, they just listen and hold you?  And every time you're around them, no matter what you're doing, whether its cooking or housework or watching a game or reading or ...  you feel happy and content?  And you have intense discussions about things you don't necessarily agree on but throughout which there is no arguing, but lots of intellectual stimulation?  Who thinks you're beautiful, even on bad hair days?  And you smile every time you see them or even think about them?  Who puts up with your dogs even when they're being hooligans and chewing up things and barking like idiots?  And other stuff that my mother really doesn't want me to write about here, but I can sum it up in a single word:  Chemistry.  No?

I didn't either.  Until now.

We waited a little while for the kids to meet him.  It was angsty for me, of course it was.  You reach that point where you know you want this someone around, to have them really be a part of your life, not just the person you spend time with when your children are at their other parent's house.  But you can't really go forward until you know how they'll be with your kids and they can't really go forward until they understand you not as a single person but as a single mother of two wonderful albeit challenging kids.

So far so good.  We took the kids bowling this weekend for the first introduction, and even with C's major sensory meltdown (note to self:  Bring earplugs to the bowling alley for the kid who has sensory disorders) it was ok.  Better than OK.  What I saw was someone who was patient, helpful, tolerant and kind with my children, even when they were being challenging.  I have no idea what he saw from his end besides a stressed out mother in need of a stiff drink, after struggling with her child through two pairs of bowling shoes, one pair of pants that "felt funny" and one chair that was "poking me!" and so had to be flipped over (thank you, Atomic Bowl, for not kicking us out) but so far he hasn't changed his phone number, he's still taking my calls and he even had us over for family dinner the next night.  That's a good sign, right?

Life feels good right now.  And I know that I sound ridiculous and gushy and all "in love" and that's just so strange coming from me, who is normally prickly and reserved and untrusting of the human race in general, but there you have it.  I'm happy.  Deal with it. 

Tomorrow I'll tell you all what the school came up with as a proposed IEP for C. 

A little too quiet

Smallest to largest.  L to R:  Hercules, Roscoe, Kia, T-Bone. 

 

This is not a very good picture, but I love what it represents.  The hustle and bustle in my house since September, the peaceful co-existence of four large, goofy dogs.  The way they all just seemed to fit together, their individual roles in the makeup of the pack.  The way that three of the cats didn't come out from under the bed from September until just this weekend.

Kia got a home last weekend.

I have to remind myself when dogs like Kia come stay with me that I can't keep them all.  T-Bone came along after Lady died and he just wrapped his big furry paws around my heart.  The idea of keeping him crept into my brain and just wouldn't let me go. 

Kia was kind of the same way.  She is a special, sweet dog.  Her former owner had brought her to a local veterinary office, asking to have her euthanized.   He said there was something wrong with her legs and she couldn't walk.  When the vet tech expressed incredulity and pressed him a little more, he burst into tears and confessed that he was having to move away because of financial circumstances and he wouldn't be able to take her with him.  He'd had her since she was a puppy and she was his best friend and he just didn't know what else to do.

The vet convinced him to surrender her to the rescue and assured him that even older dogs do find loving homes.  (Its true!  They do!)

She was with me long enough that she became part of the house, part of the routine.  She'd been to a couple of adoption days at the shelter but always came home.  Saturday morning was just another part of the routine.  Drive her down, drop her off, go back at four to pick her up.  Big black dogs are always the last to go, no one wants to adopt big black dogs for some reason.  No thought in my head that Kia wouldn't come back at the end of the day.  Not until the shelter volunteer called me and asked if I had time to answer a few questions from a potential adoptive family. 

Some fosters you can't wait to place and it seems forever until they finally find someone willing to give them a chance.  Others you like well enough but when they're gone you're just happy for them.  And there is a small, special group.  The ones that when they finally do go, you cry.  Not for them, but for you.

Its a little quieter here this week. No ball being dropped behind me on the chair as I sit here typing this, being chased and brought back and dropped again, covered in slobber.  No circling of the dining room table, trying to get the cats to PLAY! just a little bit.  No rubber bone being dropped on my feet while I sit on the toilet. 

No Kia.  (I always felt like I was calling her a phone when I'd tell her "No, Kia.  No!  Kia!")

She's got two girls whose beds she can sleep on all night long, but there is a spot on C's bed that is now empty of his nighttime companion.  And there's a spot in my heart that is shaped like a big, black, happy dog. 

I know she will have a good life with her new family.

But I will miss her.

Um, NO.

I have come to enjoy sessions with my therapist.  She was so hard to find, the good ones always seem to be.  I find too many MSW’s or LC’s  are too accommodating, too reflective or simply just not able to keep up with me.  I’m strong-willed, opinionated, and like most of us, I can create a wall of defense behind every bad decision I make.  Its hard to find a therapist who can challenge me when they think it necessary, but do so in a way that continues the dialogue. 

I think I would make a terrible therapist.  I don’t know that I would be able to cope with it if my clients refused to examine their bad choices and make better ones.  I don’t see how I could keep myself from smacking a client upside the head who was clearly on the tracks toward disaster and they refused to listen to me.   Yes, I most definitely do NOT have a career calling as a therapist.  

So at my last appointment, everything was pretty much awesome.   She confirmed my instincts on some of the conflict I’m having with my ex, I told her about the new man in my life and instead of chastising me (which I expected) we had some good discussion around when/how the kids should be introduced.    We talked about C and his IEP and the sensory stuff, talked about some of the items I’ve ordered for him and some other things I need to consider purchasing.  And then, everything took a decidedly downhill turn.

“How’s A___?” 

”She’s doing pretty well.  Having some focus issues in class, we’re working on some med changes to compensate.  Other than that and her normal inability to tolerate her brother, things are pretty awesome.”

"Have you started talking to her about puberty yet?”

I’m sorry, what did you say?

 

 

Puberty?

 

  

Its not that I haven't talked to my daughter about how women's bodies work, and how grown up women are different than girls physically.  Its not that I haven't mentioned in passing, usually in response to questions, about things like body hair and menstrual cycles and bras. 

This is all fine and dandy...IN THEORY.

I am not.

NOT.

READY.

To have a daughter who is IN PUBERTY.  Come ON, she was a chubby little adorable baby just yesterday!  Seriously!

This is, of course, the point in the conversation where my therapist smacks me alongside the head, tells me to stop being such a giant hypocrite and start paying attention to this whole "parenting" thing I'm supposed to be doing.

She sent me home with this pink book I'm supposed to read with her.  I get the willies even looking at it.  I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS.   

I have to do this.

Hold me.

No bad apples

I can't count the number of times I've heard people comment, "When we were kids they didn't have all this ADHD stuff.  Kids either behaved or they got in trouble, period."  If you have kids like mine, you've probably heard it endlessly as well.  And you've probably been as frustrated as I have, trying to explain all of the things that are wrong with that line of thought without sounding like you're an ineffective parent or just making excuses. 

The pervasive belief in our society is that children misbehave to get attention, or because they're "bad" or "acting out."  They misbehave because they're not being parented appropriately or disciplined enough.  My children have disorders that walk hand-in-hand with behavioral challenges, and as their mother and their advocate, I'm compelled to actively challenge this kind of thinking. 

In The Explosive Child, Dr. Ross Greene writes, "Children do well if they can."  Many people think rather that children do well if they want to.

Consider the impact of that statement. 

I think of my son, in his classroom, out of his seat, touching everything, ignoring instructions, tantruming when he feels other kids are looking at him or when he has to cope with a change from one task to another. 

He doesn't want to act this way.  He's not seeking attention.  He doesn't like being in trouble, he doesn't like being different, he doesn't like not being liked.  He does these things because he can't help himself. 

When we understand our special needs kiddos in this context, almost everything about the way we parent them changes.  Dr. Greene says that the difference between the kids who can do well and those who can't is simply that the kids who can't lack the skillset they need.  That's where they need their parents, educators, counselors, therapists and doctors - they need us to help them learn those skills.

Once we grasp this, we can stop looking at the behavior and look at the child underneath it and start to discover what they lack and where we can assist.

I posted several times about the disconnect between my son's teacher and me.  I felt that she was focusing too much on the things he was doing wrong and not seeing the same child that I love with all my heart.  The best thing about people and circumstances, though, is that they are always changing. 

At our last team meeting, I noticed a change in how C's teacher talked about him and the things that were happening in her classroom.  She seemed excited to relate some of the things she was finding helpful, and there was a shine to her that wasn't there before.  After the meeting, when his counselor and I were talking privately, I remarked on this.  The counselor told me that she, too had noticed a change and not only that, but that the teacher was now contacting her frequently with ideas and questions on things that might help my son.

Then yesterday, when I picked him up from his aftercare, the director (who has been a wonderful friend to us) passed along a little bit of information that brought tears to my eyes.  She had been late arriving to pick him up after school, so the teacher had seen the rest of her class off and had taken C back to her classroom.  K apologized for being so late.  The teacher responded, "Oh, I don't mind that at all.  It gives me a chance to have some one on one time with him, and I enjoy that so much."

She gets it.

He will do well IF HE CAN.  And she wants to help him get there.

WIN.

Inadequate Parenting

Most of the time I feel like I have a grip on this many-tentacled sea-beast that is my life, but like all of us I have days and nights where I feel overwhelmed and lost.  Where I fail at staying calm, staying focused, keeping my temper, keeping sight of the bigger picture.

The parenting of any child is a process fraught with worry.  Just navigating the stormy shoals involved in raising a child safely to adulthood is a gamble.  So many things can go wrong, even when parents are connected, involved, watchful, devoted. 

My kids find ways to challenge me daily, in devious and skillful ways that my jedi training has left me woefully unprepared for.  Many times I duck and parry and successfully ward off the attack that has been brewing; sometimes I'm even prepared far in advance of the onslaught and my defenses respond like the well-trained machines I've prepared them to be.

Then there are the days when the reasoned response, the practiced "I'm going to do and say this the next time they [insert crazy batshit childish misbehavior or even worse crazy batshit sensory/oppositional issue here].  And sometimes my preparation works, and I manage not only to retain some dignity and composure and still shepherd these willful charges into a semblance of order. 

Then there are the other days.  The days, that, for whatever reason, from the starter's pistol to the final ribbon -  are doomed. Every stride in between either leads us to injury, misery or treason.  They are in tears, I am in tears, we are all in pieces and it sucks.

We made it tonight, by the skin of our teeth. 

 

That's good, right?

 

The price of contentedness

Sometimes you can be too happy.

Sometimes you can forget that there are things you must still pay attention to, no matter how much you might be settling into the warm, snuggly feeling of liking someone.  And when your focus strays, you must eventually deal with the consequences.

The eyebrows that you normally maintain with meticulous focus -- they might very well have started a concerted effort to join in the middle.  And spread out to other parts of your face.

The new pair of jeans you got that were already starting to feel a little loose in the hips, the button and the buttonhole might resist your wish to meet easily.

While you might not appreciate that there will be consequences to staying up til nearly midnight several days in a row, your body will remind you that indeed, there are. Usually about halfway home from work, when you might learn the hard way why there's a rumble strip on the side of the highway.

You might suddenly realize that you have a week's worth of laundry to do.  Immediately, in fact, if you'd like to have something to wear to work tomorrow.

There might be dust bunnies the size of Rhode Island lurking under the oak hutch.

 

Be warned and beware.  THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOU.

 

But its worth it.

 

Rant ON.

Finally, something has me more frustrated and angry than relationship issues.  I guess I just needed a good controversy to pull me out of the soup.

I can't recall that I've ever used this space to address my complete and utter distaste for Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church.  Consider this a remedy of that omission.

The fun-loving folks over at WBC sent out a press release on Saturday announcing their intention to picket the funerals of the 6 people who died at the hands of Jared Lee Loughner in Tucson on Saturday.  Their "press release" (I hadn't realized that "press release was the new terminology for delusional hate-filled ranting.  Apparently I'm out of touch) contains such gems as "Thank God for the shooter!", "God sent the shooter to shoot you!  And He's sitting in Heaven laughing at you!", "Your federal judge is dead and your (fag-promoting, baby-killing, proud-sinner) Congresswoman fights for her life."  The pick of the crop, though is this one:  "WBC prays for your destruction - more shooters, more dead carcasses piling up, young, old, leader and commoner - all."

As if it weren't disgusting enough that they own the rights to the domain name "godhatesfags.com," they've also managed to acquire "godhatestheworld.com," among other gems.  They protest at military funerals, celebrity funerals, memorials, at churches and even the Holocaust museum.  They've been allowed, in the name of free speech, to torment more families in mourning than I thought was humanly possible.  And they do it all to spread the hate of God.

That's right.  God hates us all, according to the Phelps family, who comprise the majority of this so-called "church"s 71 members.  They spend around $200,000 a year to fly protesters to every event possible so they can spread their belief that every tragedy in the world is the result of increasing tolerance and acceptance.  After poisoning my eyesight researching their filthy rhetoric I've concluded they pretty much hate everyone.  Possibly even themselves.  No group that I can see has been excluded from the reach of the hate-speech that flows from their lips and pens like reeking sewage.

I'm not sure how WBC can actually qualify as a "church" or how in the name of all that quacks like a duck their hate rhetoric can be equated with a "religion," but I'll bet ya dollars to donuts they take that religious exemption on their federal tax filings year after year. 

Fortunately, the hole they've been digging themselves into with their vituperation has begun to fill to the neckline with a rising tide of common sense.  There's a case sitting in front of the U.S. Supreme court now resulting from them being sued by the father of a soldier whose son's funeral they picketed.  The initial ruling awarded $2.9 million in compensatory damages to the Snyder family.  They appealed, of course, and the district court upheld the ruling.  The Snyder's momentum in the case fizzled a bit in 09 when a federal appeals court reversed the lower court's award and ruled in favor of the WBC.  However, the U.S. Supreme court granted certiorari in March of last year.  The case has been heard and a decision is expected this summer.  I'm a big fan of free speech, but the events in Tucson show us the cost of fanaticism flamed by the fires of hateful words.

There is no room in the national dialogue for the kind of words that reduce our level of communication to that of locker-room bullies.  We must, in the name of enlightenment, peace and justice, condemn the seeds of hate that people like Fred Phelps and his "congregation" sow. 

Fortunately, legislators in Arizona have pulled together to pass a nonpartisan bill that bars protesters from coming within 300 feet of funeral services.  With the distance afforded by this tidy little bill, a group of angels is forming to ensure the families of Christina Green, Gabe Zimmerman, John Roll, Dorwin Stoddard, Dorothy Morris and Phyllis Schneck will not have to listen to or see Fred Phelps and his evil, intellectually challenged minions. 

A young University of Arizona student, 20-year old Chelsea Cohen, has organized an angel action inthe tradition of those created by Romaine Patterson to protect mourners at the funeral of Matthew Shepard.

 

In addition, both local Dems and Repubs have asked members to line the funeral routes to form a human barricade between the mourners and the Nuckfuts from the WBC.

When I see the things that people like Fred Phelps say and promulgate, I want to throw up.  In this world where violence and hatred end human life every single day, it is easy to become jaded. Its easy to look the other way and say "oh well, it's not about me, so why should I care?"  Ultimately, it IS about you.  About me.  About the humanity and the spirit that lives within all of us.  I might call that spirit God and someone else might call it the Universe and someone else just might call it Life, but regardless of what you believe, I know you must agree with me that a human life is worth more than simply being the tool for a hate-filled, delusional whackjob like Fred Phelps to spread his ugly rhetoric.

May God grant peace to the families of all of the victims in Tucson, especially those who have died.  May God's justice prevail as Jared Lee Loughner stands trial for his crimes and as the courts consider the question of whether the WBC should be liable for the pain and suffering it has caused so many.  And may we, every one of us, be reminded that life is both short and precious and let that impel us to show more love, more tolerance, more acceptance, more grace.