Barnmaven

Winter, begone

 
Spring is capricious.  She slips in unnoticed, then the moment you catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, she skedaddles right out the door, shy and laughing gaily behind her cupped palm.  She flirts, she sways, she peeks through the window, then darts back into the woods.  In every tantalizing waft of warm wind against your face she causes you to yearn for her, deep into the center of your core. 

And suddenly, without warning, she leaves you bereft, with no explanation as to her whereabouts.

I've been dumped, truly and well.  And I can't even hate her for it, I love her so much.  I just want her back.

 

My own worst enemy

Last summer I found this great book, How to Be an Adult in Relationships - Five Keys to Mindful Loving.  Ironically, I bought it for myself well after my ex and I split.  I found it on a shelf at the Maryhill Winery tasting room/retail shop.  (I'm not sure why they carry self-help books in a winery retail shop - after all, the last thing we really want people coming to a winery doing is thinking about self help.  God forbid they should then move on to the 12 steps and stop buying our product.  Annnnnnd I digress.  Shocked, aren't you?)

So I bought this great book and I started reading it.  The author, David Richo writes about these amazing and enlightening things people really need to receive from those they love, which are also the same thing a mature person is able to give in a relationship.  Of course, I was thinking of what I was learning in terms of "I'll use this to improve my friendships and family relationships" and, "Someday, if I ever relish the thought of being with someone again, this will be useful."  But now the rubber has met the road, and I'm reminded in some rather humbling ways that my work is FAR from over.

After my ex and I parted ways, I did a lot of work in therapy, I did a lot of twelve step stuff.  And I know I made a lot of progress.  But I am arrogant in that I assume just because I'm doing better means I won't have the same problems again in the future.

There are days when I do well. Days when I do exceptionally well.  Days when I know that the relationship I am in isn't the end-all, be-all of my existence.  I had a life before S, I will have a life after S (in the sad event that someday down the roads things go south), and even while we are in each other's lives, he and I each have things that are our own, lives that we live independent of each other.  That's how its supposed to be. 

I'm worlds better at the "fixing" part of my codependency issues.  Frankly, I don't see anything about S that needs fixing.  He's pretty awesome just the way he is.  I wouldn't change a thing (unless its the occasional leaving up of the toilet seat - but mostly he's very orderly in that regard).  Where I struggle is in my need to control things or to be constantly reassured in order to push away the fear of being left. 

Most of the time I am OK.  But there are days that come along when I start to feel lost, start to feel needy.  And I forget that it is not someone else's responsibility to make me feel OK.  I forget that being OK is MY job.  Perhaps part of is being selfish, self-absorbed.  Part of it is forgetting who I am, forgetting that another person doesn't "complete" me, another person is...another person.  Someone I like being around, someone who I feel happy just thinking about, someone in whose presence I am filled with a sense of peace and love and safety.  I forget those things in the absence of them, if time or circumstance prevents togetherness...and I succumb to fear. 

Not always, no.  But sometimes. Richo calls it the "F.A.C.E. of Ego" -- Fear, Attachment, Control, Entitlement.  We become afraid, become bound in the shallow pool of entitlement and begin trying to control the other person in order to feel relief from the pain these characteristics embody.  When this happens to me, I begin to feel insecure.  I act as if another person's actions or words can make these feelings dissipate, I become anxious for them to do the things I want them to in order to feel better, and ultimately my words and actions become a wedge between us. 

In a healthy relationship, I'm not possessive of my partner.  I know he is not an extension of me, and I know that the only way to be nurtured and cared for is to provide those things for myself.   I don't need to manipulate or push him into trying to make me feel OK, because I already am OK.

And so I work to relearn, reteach myself those things which I know but somehow continue to forget.

Confidence in ourselves grows when we feel the immense joy of
fulfilling our capacity to love. In addition, we can be comfortable in the real
world that exists beyond our wishes and manipulations. We can be cocreators
of relationships in which love is more and more cheerfully and
generously given and received. We can love the moment, all we have, and
love in the moment with all we are.

-David Richo, How to be an Adult in Relationships

Its all party of my journey, I suppose.  I'm blessed right now, by my work, my relationships, my family, my life.  I'm challenged too, by my children, my circumstances, by my self.  And that's perfectly OK. 

When you simply remain faithful to your own reality, you evoke the
creative forces in yourself that lie just below the permeable surfaces of your
psyche. There you find abundant possibility.

- David Richo, Shadow Dance: Liberating the Power and Creativity of Your Dark Side

 

S:  Thank you for patiently accepting my limitations and supporting me gently and lovingly in the face of them.

Holes

Ah, the joys of Sensory Processing Disorder.

We are making progress, I can see it every day.  The meltdown at the chiropractor's office yesterday - after being asked to back down from a spat with his sister, he started to lose it.  Crying and being frustrated turned into pulling on his hair and then punching his eyes.  Every mental discomfort becomes physical discomfort, and he comes undone.  Keenly aware of the horrified gaze of the older couple sitting in the waiting area with us and the sideways glances from the reception staff, I pulled him onto my lap.

"NO!" he yells, "DON'T TOUCH ME!!"  He struggles to get loose.  Quietly I say to him, "Here, push on my arm.  Push me away from you."  He begins to push on my arm, getting deep pressure therapy by virtue of his own struggle.  All it takes is a few moments, and he begins to visibly relax.  "You're not pushing hard enough," I say with a smile.  He giggles.  All is well.

I wish he'd make progress about his feet, but I fear we may never see it.  I dread buying shoes; it is an ordeal that I need a bottle of whiskey, a rope and a tractor to accomplish.  The rope and the tractor are simply to drag him into the store and hold him still long enough for me to find shoes that fit him - shoes that he will actually  WEAR.  They must fit loosely so that nothing pokes his foot.  They must be reasonably soft.  It helps if they have a picture on them of Lightning McQueen or Buzz Lightyear.  He's motivated by his characters.  But if they poke his foot in any way, if he can feel a seam or a tongue, forget it.  We're all done with THAT pair, thankyouverymuch.  The whiskey?  That's for me.  Just call it anaesthesia.

C also refuses to wear socks.  His sister does as well.  Its a genetic preference, I'm sure, because on weekends I rarely wear them either.  I go barefoot constantly as soon as the weather is warm enough, and if shoes are required, they're usually slipped on bare feet.

Winter is always a concern.  The sock refusal seems fraught with dangers -- waiting for the bus, recess, walking between the portable and the main school, all in sub-freezing temperatures.  The rains of spring don't really alleviate the concern, but I've learned to just sit on that desire to FIX and understand that so far he hasn't actually lost a foot to frostbite.  The likelihood that he will make it to adulthood without socks seems more possible every day.

But the buying of shoes -- always something to avoid.  Just last night as I was getting him out of the tub and into his PJ's I noticed the bottoms were pulling away from the fabric in the front.  Oh, great.  How long can I delay buying shoes?  Days?  A week maybe?  Definitely need to do it soon.

Not soon enough.

A phone call today from the school.  One of the duties on the playground was concerned because my son has no socks and his shoe is falling apart. 

I'm getting better at not feeling like a complete parenting failure when things like this happen, but there's always a few moments where I close my eyes and let the feelings of shame, anger, frustration and resignation wash through me.  Then I take a breath, compose myself, and thank the person for calling.  Its not their fault, they're new, they don't know my son.  They don't live this.  I suppose if I was the playground duty on a cold Tuesday in February and I saw the kid who looked normal running around without holey shoes and no socks I'd probably assume there was some negligent parenting going on too.  Or maybe not.  Who knows?

Will they let me add verbage to his IEP to the effect that no one is allowed to question the state of his shoes, at least to my face?

Pardon me while I go grab a rope from the barn, rent a tractor and buy a bottle of whiskey.  I've got some shoes to buy.

 

More than Mommy

Last Thursday and Friday I was in a meeting room at a hotel that faces the waterfront in Portland, Oregon.  For two days I was sharing ideas and planning goals with our operations team.  Its a group of exceptional people, all very smart, all very good at what they do.  Listening to us collectively I was once again struck by how much I like each and every one of my peers and how well we collaborate. 

For a couple of days I was free as a bird, even though I was working.  S took care of the zoo, the kids were at their dad's for a couple of nights. No one was calling my name, needing to be let outside, demanding a snack or requesting my presence.

 

Even after things in my marriage got really bad, the thought of separation was terrifying to me.  It wasn't being on my own, it wasn't fear of falling into a financial black hole.  What I imagined I would not be able to cope with was spending nights or weekends or even longer without my children.  Merely considering being away from them made it hard to breathe.  So when the end of the marriage inevitably came, as much as it was a relief, fear remained.

The first night my children stayed with their father felt like the longest night of my life.  I couldn't concentrate on anything, sleep eluded me, and when I finally did sleep I had horrid dreams.  I'd already given up the role of being my husband's wife; now I felt like I was abandoning, however briefly, being my children's mother as well.

Throughout those first months, Friday nights were a struggle.  Mondays weren't so bad, I always had work to keep me busy and so much to do with taking care of animals that I didn't feel the emptiness of the house until almost bedtime.  But Fridays into Saturday mornings -- too many hours alone.  I didn't even consider going out or socializing.  For a few months, I immersed myself in the computer, playing games, the same place I'd escaped from an unhappy marriage became the place I hid from the bitter pain of missing my children.

Winter was long and it was dark.  It wasn't until spring came that I began the slow crawl out of that hole.  My friend had our trainer out for a clinic at her place, which got me out of my house and back on a horse.  That clinic led to weekly trail rides, led to me finding my dream horse, led to friendship and laughter and fun.  Fridays and Saturdays began to take on a new shape, no longer looming on the horizon as time to be endured but as something to anticipate.  I was not only finding a role for myself outside of mother, I was building a friendship, meeting other people who shared my interests, being outdoors.  Outside of my job I was meeting other people whose first impression of me wasn't that I was somebody's mom or somebody's wife.  I was ME. 

I started fostering for the rescue, and staked claim on another role for myself.  I began to understand that although being my children's mother is the most important job I have, even though its a job I will hold until I die, it also won't be as encompassing forever as it is now.  Someday my children will grow up and start lives of their own.  Between now and then, they will become more independent, finding their own roles in life, and they will need less of me.  As that gap widens, if all I have been is "Mom," who will I then be when they don't need me anymore? 

Women with children often get pigeonholed as being little else than mothers.  Women without children often get pigeonholed as women who are "missing" something in their lives.  Our reality can be - truly is - so much richer than that. 

I believe it is important for anyone, but especially for women with young children or careers to carve out space in their lives to do the things that interest them.  Music, photography, crafting, cooking, gardening, creating artwork, writing, carpentry, car repair, remodeling, horseback riding, karate -- whatever those things are that make you feel truly alive when you do them.  Find your groove and go do that as much as you possibly can. You will not always be your job, you will not always be herding children from school to dance to basketball games.  There will come a day when you will be at loose ends more than not, and if you don't have something to fill that void, I guarantee you will feel a greater sense of loss than the person who has already discovered their passion outside of work or parenting.

I'm no longer bound by fear of losing my role as a parent.  I realize that mothering my kids is something I will do to varying degrees throughout my life, but it is not the only thing I will do.

When I'm free of the responsibility of my life, for a few hours or a few days, I'm no longer stumped for ways to fill that time.  I'm not spending countless hours interacting with other characters in an online game -- I'm spending rich, immensely satisfying hours interacting with my animals and with other people in real life, taking part in activities that bring me tremendous pleasure.  It wasn't until I learned to honor my own needs and find my own niche that I was able to outpace the fear of loss that was holding me hostage.

I am a mother.  It is the most important job I have  - FOR NOW. 

I am also:  horsewoman, animal rescuer, singer, writer, musician, friend, bibliophile, manager, someone's love...and for a few more weeks, puppy chew toy.

Puppies, headaches and mania, oh my!

Thanks to S, whose next contract job doesn't start until April(ish) I was able to volunteer to foster puppies for the rescue.  Wait, maybe I'm phrasing that wrong.

Because I'm a forgetful person and a total pushover for babies, I managed to get suckered into fostering puppies for the rescue, aided and abetted by my darling S, who apparently is a sucker of gre at magnitude.

Meet Bella:

and her litter mate Lexie:

As I write this, they are under my chair, chewing on my Uggs.

They are 7 1/2 week-old bundles of cuteness, charm, needle-sharp teeth and an endless reserve of piddle.  The boys have their noses seriously out of joint and the cats are hatching murder plots.  If they don't quit chewing on the power cord to my laptop, though, the cat's won't need to murder them.  I will.

Puppy antics aside, I'm enjoying a few days of relative calm.  I'm pretty sure C was cycling this weekend, the end result of that being a complete inability to cope with anything.  He spent much of Saturday night an Sunday either crying over things that weren't going right or screaming at the top of his lungs because things weren't going right.   He was on sensory overload and just couldn't cope.  Monday I had to get him from school because he was so upset about going to his class Valentine's Day party that he laid on the floor in the hallway sobbing for an hour.

We all survived it, mostly.  Last night after everyone else was sleeping C and I cuddled together on the couch and watched The Tooth Fairy.  He was tired and so was I, but neither of us was ready to give up each others company.  Those are the moments that get me through the trying times. 

A had a terrible headache last night.  Its the second one she's had in as many weeks.  Friday before last I ended up taking her to the ER.  She'd had a headache since the night before, and when we went to see our pediatrician, she also said her neck was hurting.  He was concerned about meningitis and sent us straight to Emergency.  Apparently when they suspect bacterial meningitis in children, they don't mess around.  AT ALL.  We were ushered straight into a room.  The pediatric doctor on rotation examined her, then had blood drawn to check white-cell counts.  It was A's first blood draw and she likes needles about as much as I do, so it ended being quite the rodeo, with four nurses and me holding her down so the nurse could get her samples taken.  Fortunately her white cell count was in normal range, so they sent us home with some Naproxen and instructions to rest.  The Naproxen worked its magic and she was much better within a few hours.  Last night the headache started again and she was unable to sleep, so I gave her another one.  She got sleep, but I tossed and turned.  Of course.

 

Anyone in the market for a puppy?

 

Better With

I read somewhere once (Or maybe someone said this to me, I'm old and I forget a lot of things lately) that you know you love someone if your life is better with them in it than it would be without them.

I suppose that's a good start, but I think there's a lot more to it than that.

When it's real, you enjoy just about anything you do with that person, even if its just sitting around putting pencils in a kindergartner's valentine's day cards.

The things that are important to them matter to you.

You don't resent the time they spend recharging their batteries.  Whatever it is that makes them feel joyful and energized, when they spend time doing that, you are truly happy for them because you know they are taking care of themselves and you know that's a good thing.

You honestly care about how they feel, even if you don't understand it.  You take the time to listen to and acknowledge their feelings.

These are also the ways that you recognize that someone loves you.  These are gifts, priceless treasures of respect, care, understanding and acknowledging. If these gifts were lacking in my life before now, it was as much my fault as anyone else's - it takes two people to make this kind of love happen, it takes presence and mindfulness and determination.   What I do know is that right now, today, I have this kind of love in my life and I am profoundly grateful for every moment of it.

I'm often sentimental about my children.  It is easy, very easy for me to express here just how very much I love them, how profoundly they move me.  It is easy for me to tell you the many feelings I have about being their mother, the good, the difficult, the amazing and the dreadful.  I can tell you here how riding my horses makes my heart sing, the sharp, sweet pang of love I feel when I share a quiet moment of communion with those special guys who live in my barn, or I can rhapsodize about my beloved dogs and their crazy, sweet, funny antics.  But when it comes to my own relationship, I mostly feel incapable of putting words to my feelings. 

Part of it is fear, part of it is habit.  My ex did not want to be part of this space, and I respected that.  But there's more to it than that -- if I write here about my feelings for the man in my life?  And six months, a year, ten years down the road, he's not in my life anymore?  Then I've been foolish. I know, just writing it down and reading, I know it sounds silly and sad.  But at my age, one thing I most certainly do not want to be is foolish.  Its not just in writing about it, its also in the act of being in love -- keeping my feelings under lock and key, being afraid to express something because I learned long ago, in less mature relationships, that sharing my feelings led to invalidation, to anger, recrimination and bitterness.  I learned that my feelings, if they were not 100% positive, must be kept to myself.  That's a hard habit to undo. 

Its an odd dichotomy, hard to explain, how I both wear my heart on my sleeve, yet keep it behind sealed walls.  In so many ways, my feelings are an open book -- but they're a book without words.  You can see I'm feeling something, I show it in every nuance of facial expression and movement, but I do not give it words. 

And so, as an act of love and an act of change, I gave words to my feelings.  He, by simply being who he is, made it safe for me to open those doors and speak.  It was a deeply emotional experience for me, to be listened to and acknowledged.  To finally understand that I am safe with him, that I can be myself, speak my feelings, and still be loved.  Still be accepted.   He gives me that, and so much more.

This morning, the sky outside my window glowed pink and rose as the sun began to make its way up from slumber.  The colors in the sky matched perfectly the fullness in my heart.

 

S, Happy Valentine's Day.  You are the man I have waited my whole life for, the one person I want to spend the rest of it with.   I love you. 

 

 

Soapbox: Preserving Adoptee Rights in Oregon

 

 

 

A brief history:

In 1864, the state of Oregon enacted its first adoption law.  This law severed the ties of birth parents to a child,  declaring selfsame child to belong to the adoptive parents.  Until 1921, though, all name changes - for adoption or otherwise - were published annually and made available to the general public.  In essence, an adopted person - or anyone else, for that matter, had access to adoption records.

In 1921 the practice of publishing name changes ended in Oregon, but it wasn't until 1939 when Oregon followed many other states in actually sealing some of paperwork involved in the adoption process, though those records could be accessed by court order.  In 1941, the Oregon legislature provided for an altered birth certificate to be issued upon the adoption.  The 1941 laws did not, however, provide for secrecy or identity protection for birthparents.

In 1957, the original birth certificate became a sealed record in Oregon, available only by court order. It was in 1979 that all adoption - related records, including agency files, were sealed as well.

Until 1957, the state of Oregon provided an original birth certificate to every citizen who requested one.   There was nothing in any Oregon law which prevented an adult adoptee from asking for and obtaining her birth certificate.  After 1957, however, adoptees in Oregon had a most basic right taken away, the right to view official documents recording their birth.

In 1998 I had the immense privilege to support Helen Hill, Oregon adoptees and birthparents, and Bastard Nation in the campaign to gather enough signatures to place Measure 58 on the Oregon ballot that year.

We wrote letters to the editor.  We collected signatures.  We did interviews and outreach.  We spoke out and acted out and marched ourselves bloody. 

On November 3, 1998, Oregon voters agreed that adult adoptees in Oregon should be able to access their own birth certificate.  It took two more years of wrangling in court, however, for the Measure to finally take effect.  On May 30, 2000, the stalling and the appeals (remember the Jane Doe's?) and the drama were finally put to rest,and Oregon adoptees were finally able to go to their Department of Records and request a copy of their original birth certificate, just like any other non-adopted citizen in Oregon.

This brief narrative does NO JUSTICE to the amount of money, time, effort, sweat-equity and dedication that went in to making Measure 58 a reality. 

Now someone wants to change that.

Representative Dave Hunt (D) has introduced 2843, a law that would repeal Measure 58.  Under HB 2843, adoptees would only be able to access their birth certificate if a birth mother provided written consent.

I don't want to rehash hours and pages of birthmother testimony here, but its out there and its compelling.  Over 500 birthmothers paid for a full page ad in the Oregonian in support of Measure 58. 

No other citizen requires the permission of another adult to access the original record of their birth.  A birth certificate records the birth of a person and unless all birth certificates become accessible only under parental permission, the birth certificate of an adopted person should by the same token be available to the person whose birth it records.  Period.

I pay the same taxes as you do.  I vote.  I drive.  I am old enough to drink.  I have two children and a full time job.  Why on earth should my birthmother dictate whether or not I have the right to the document that records MY OWN BIRTH?

Ron Morgan will be chronicling the fight against HB2843 here.

Join us.

Don't let this happen.

 

 

 

McTeacher's Night

My kids' school had a fundraising event tonight at the Mecca of McNuggets. 

The Golden Arches are a favorite of millions of children the world over, mine included.  Going there has become more troublesome of late, primarily due to my son's tendency to obsess over the Toy du'Jour being offered in the Happy Meal.

He memorizes the toys on the readerboard.  When he's earned enough stickers at school to get the much-anticipated Happy Meal, he will immediately begin considering which of the current toys he wants the most, the top selection being chosen on a rating scale of physical attractiveness, its "coolness" factor and whether or not he's already got it.  Getting a not wanted toy is second in disappointment only to getting a toy that he already possesses.  If the toy that is received is not the toy that he has been building himself up to anticipate, a meltdown generally ensues.

He's not just being a rotten child. He's not just being a "typical" six year old who is disappointed because he didn't get what he wanted.  The meltdown stems from his complete inability to accept an outcome that is outside of his expectations.  Inflexibility is one of the many symptoms of his issues.   He doesn't want to be this way;  rather, he can't help it.

But, tonight was McTeacher's night, and both the kids really wanted to go see their friends and teachers.  We wanted to support our school.  So we went.

The place was packed to the gills with elementary students and teachers, and even the vice-principal and the librarian.  The kids happily greeted their educators and their friends. 

Unfortunately, it was also LOUD and CHAOTIC.  And then...the worst. C wanted the RED TONKA TRUCK.  The one with THE HOOK.  Of course, they didn't happen to have that one available.  And they looked, trust me, they looked.  Nobody wants to disappoint the cute little kindergartner who is crying his eyes out because he wants a certain truck.  But they didn't have it.

How fast can you get out of a crowded McDonald's with your kindergartner who is melting down?  Who is the ONLY CHILD IN THE RESTAURANT who is crying?  Every other child there was happy.  Of course they were happy.  Why not?  They were enjoying the great treat of having their McNuggets and sodas with their friends, teachers and parents.  As far as they were all concerned, life was Grand.  Wonderful.  With the sole exception of my son.

I was as patient as I could be.  I got our meals together.  I got an ice cream cone for my daughter.  The lady behind the ice cream counter was patient enough to wait for a sobbing boy to select his orange sherbet cone.  And then we collected ourselves and departed.

He cried all the way home.  I cried from tiredness and frustration.

Naturally, within ten minutes of arriving home, he was happily showing off his new tonka truck to me.  It wasn't the one he wanted, no, but it just took him enough time to get used to the concept of having something unexpected. 

God, please forgive me for looking at all of those happy, smiling children in that restaurant tonight and wishing that for just once, JUST FUCKING ONCE that we could be just like them instead of being the weird family with the child who screams for reasons that aren't readily apparent to everyone else.

Please forgive me for wishing for once NOT to be the family that gets stared at as we exit yet another public event with a howling child who simply cannot handle being there.

Forgive me, when things could be so much worse than they are.  Because I don't want to sound like I'm complaining. 

Even when I am.

I'm the one screwing up your bounce rate

Did you know that I am a speed reader?

I am.

My reading speed is 1203 words per minute.  My comprehension rate is 91%.  I am not lying.

I'm the one who reads your 800-word blog post in less than a minute and moves on to the next blog.  And I remember pretty much everything you said.

I hope all the people spending less than 40 seconds on this blog have the same problem.

 

Hmmph.

Morning coffee

5:00 5:09 5:18 5:27 am.

I drag myself out of bed, let the dogs out and head down the hall.  I slap the button on the coffee grinder and pour water in the machine.  While my fix percolates, I think about making lunches.  I get distracted by a phone bill and write a letter of complaint to my service provider.  I turn on the news, listen for a few minutes and turn it off.  There's a lot going on in the world today.  I want to be insulated from it.  I toss a load of laundry in the dryer and clean the litter box.

The coffee is ready.  I pour a skoosh of milk in the bottom of the cup and then fill it to the top with steaming, brown, lovely coffee.  Smell and then sip.  Best part of my morning, that first taste of liquid motivation.

I log on, read email, blogs, Twitter and Facebook.  Write a couple of comments, hope they communicated what I meant.  Remember that I forgot lunches.

Second cup of coffee.  Make sandwiches, pack juice boxes, applesauce and snacks.  Gird my loins for the Waking of the Kids (similar to the annual Running of the Bulls, this event is a real adrenaline-fest).  Some days the effort involved in rousting them from their beds is herculean.  Occasionally God smiles upon me and they wake themselves up, smiling and happy, ready to face the day.  More often than not, though, they resist until the bitter end. 

Breakfast, getting dressed, brushing teeth, taking meds.  Feeding dogs, feeding horses, dogs in crates, coats on, kids in car, off we go.

Routine.

Predictable, boring, as vital to my life as the caffeine that starts my day. 

I know beyond a doubt the wild child of my twenties would not recognize the old fart I've become.  Routine?  Predictability?  Evil words uttered by a walking tool of the Machine.

How did I get here?  And even more importantly, when did I start to LIKE it? 

Our routine, when we begin our day on a predictable schedule, helps us to do better.  Most of the so-called experts agree that kids and adults with ADD do much better with routines.  For that matter, most kids who don't have the kinds of issues my kids have do better with routines.  For us, routines are the building block of the day.  We all know what to expect:  We will eventually get up, eventually get fed, and mom will be late to work again.

When we miss any of the tick marks on the schedule, it causes a slump that will fall into the toilet, dragging the rest of our day with it. 

The dogs even know the routine.  Right now, as I type this, it is time for them to eat.  As if on cue, they surround my chair.  Roscoe bumps my forearm with his nose, knocking my fingers off the keyboard.  Hercules starts moaning at me.   T Bone put his head on my lap and looks at me with soulful eyes. 

Time to go.  Interrupting the schedule is not allowed.