Barnmaven

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.

 

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.

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. 

I shouldn't post today

But I'm gonna anyway. 

Never fight when you're mad.

Never drink when you're mad.

Never, EVER blog when you're mad.

Instead?  Wait a few hours until the hot fire of mad dulls down to icy rage, reconsider doing all of the above, sleep on it and mull it over a bit longer until the icy rage melts down to a sad understanding that you've been played, the same way you've been played for years  by someone with control issues, and resolve that the last vestiges of the codependent crap you've continued to foster must - simply must - go.

If the last year or so has taught me nothing else, it has taught me that I can be my own person.  I don't need permission to make decisions for myself.  I don't need someone's approval or agreement to know when I'm doing the right thing.  Yes, I'm going to make mistakes.  I'm going to make decisions I'll look back on someday and wonder which cues I missed, how I failed to see the outcome.  That's my right as a human being, a right we all share.  But I have children.  Smalls who depend on me, and, the ripples I make when that decision hits the water overlap lives other than mine, so I'd better be careful and I'd better be right.  And I'd better not make decisions in anger.

I know, this is cryptic.  I'm sorry.  One of the purposes of this blog is to provide a way for me to understand my own thoughts and feelings. Its serving that purpose right now, as the words flow from my brain to my fingers to the screen.  I compose, I consider, I erase, rewrite, reword, rethink.  I begin to understand.  And after that's all said and done, people toss their comments in the mix, and those often give me yet more perspective. 

Still, I have to be careful what I say here, in this public space.  My words affect others, but most importantly my words have the ability to affect the two most important people in my life.  Being angry with their father isn't a good enough reason to hurt my kids by writing unkind things about him here.  But know that were I not restrained by those self-imposed rules, this post?  Particularly if I'd written it yesterday?  Searing epistle of rage. 

I guess its human nature to think that we are different from everyone else.  We are special.  We often don't recognize when we excuse ourselves from the expectations we carefully thread around others.  We all do it.  I do it.  And maybe we don't like it when people point it out to us.  Who knows? 

Another thing that is natural for people is the need to be heard, to be listened to.  To have our feelings acknowledged.  One of the biggest challenges of my life as a young girl was living with a father who was equally as emotional - maybe even more so - than I am.  And my dad, when he would get upset at something, he'd go silent.  I suspect now that he was burning, icy hot, and couldn't bring himself to talk about what was making him mad or didn't want to talk about it for fear of saying something he'd regret, but quiet he would go.  And when he was mad at me, that quiet was unnerving.  Nothing I did or said could make him talk to me about it until he was ready.  That was his way of handling it - and his right to do so - but the residue of that within me is a sense of utter desperation when I need someone to hear and acknowledge me and they refuse.  Its usually followed by blinding rage at being ignored. 

Some people know that about me.  And I think when they don't like something I've done, they use it against me.  Or maybe I'm giving too much credit - maybe not acknowledging me is simply the way they handle conflict and its a simple accident of fate that I somehow managed to marry the one person who could evoke that helpless rage of my childhood.  However, whatever.  Somehow in my recovery the one lesson I still need to improve on is the ability to sense when I'm too emotional about something, when I need to let go of having expectations of others, when I need to release myself from the expectations others put on me,  when I need to remember that nobody is responsible for how I feel and what I do but ME. 

I'm deep in that right now, and its uncomfortable as hell. 

I have some decisions to make.  I can't make them lightly.  They affect my kids too, and therefore every move I make must center around how to make a bad situation as good as it can possibly be FOR THEM. 

And while I strive to protect them as much as I can, I still have to honor myself.  I have to stand up for myself.

And so I type and read and erase and reword and backspace, go back and reread, and I ponder.

Its hard to understand how we go from the harmony and ease of the holidays to the current state, but here we are.  One thing changed, I met someone, and I suspect that's the biggest factor affecting the events of the last few days.  Never underestimate how hard it is for your ex to see you move on, even if they already started dating months ago. 

Remembering to breathe

Tomorrow morning we have the first meeting of C''s team at school to discuss the results of his IEP testing and to hear the recommendations the school will make.  To find out whether they agree that he qualifies for services.  IF he qualifies for services, what interventions they will put in place.  And I'm really anxiety-laden about it.  The stomach-in-knots and sweaty palms kind of anxious.

When we had A's testing done, she had already been in an intervention program.  Instead of going into the mainstream kindergarten class, she went instead to a small classroom for kids from K to 2nd grade who had behavioral issues/learning disorders. The school was able to place her there because she had an IEP from New Jersey with diagnoses and recommendations for interventions.  But between some maturing, the help she got in her classroom, the medications and the therapies, she was doing much better by the time the school got around to doing their own testing on her.  So she wasn't qualified for an IEP by the school.  They didn't feel that she needed formal interventions to function, that her issues didn't provide a significant impairment to her ability to learn and to receive an appropriate education. 

I was new to the process, and I acquiesced. Caved to the "experts."  I wrote up a 504 plan for her, to provide her accommodations in the event that she did have issues, and so far things have gone well - but still, I wish I'd fought a little harder.  She's doing fine, really, but I think there would be tremendous benefit to her having learning assistance, extra tutoring, OT, additional help with behavioral adjustments.  She has difficulty focusing in school even with medication, and I know that she's not even close to living up to her learning potential.  But because there is no IEP, its up to me to provide all that she needs.  And I simply don't have the resources, financially, or time-wise to get OT, private tutors, etc.  Her meds wear off by dinnertime, and I'm not giving her more stimulants at night -- so homework just doesn't happen.  Its either a knock-down, drag-out fight to get her to do it -- or she does it, but she's all over the place and I know she's not getting anything out of it.  

Please don't take any of this to mean that I feel she's not an amazing, smart, talented, loving, creative and unique child.  Because she is all of those things, and more.  Every day I am blown away by my daughter, by her thoughts, her beauty, her maturity, everything about her.  I love her with every fiber of my being.  And I wish I could do more for her.

So tomorrow, I am already anticipating the worst.  I know, there's no reason that I should, but its one of those things I do.  I plan for the worst, hope for the best, and then if the worst should happen, I'm prepared.  Except when it comes to my children, when it comes to the one thing in the world I care the most about, I lose rationality.  I desperately want my son to get the things he needs, all the things he needs, not just the things I am able to provide him.  I need the school for that.  I know how impaired his functioning is in the classroom because of his issues.  He's not cognitively impaired, not by any means -- but without interventions, I fear he'll be one of those gifted children who end up dropping out of high school and climbing into that hell-bound handbasket, because he never got help to function in the school environment.  So I know more now than I did before, I am armed with better resources and information.  And I know which words to use and what to ask for.  What my rights are for appeal if we don't agree on what he needs.

I'm working hard to prepare myself to be calm, logical and rational.  Calm.  Logical.  Rational.  I can do that.  I can do that.  Now all I need is an infusion of optimism.  Tell me that its going to go well.  PROMISE me.  That all my anxiety and fear amounts to nothing.  Can you do that?

If you're the praying type, send a few up for my boy tomorrow.  If you're not, just spare him some good thoughts. 

Thanks.  I owe you.

 

Characters

The holidays are winding down to a close, and mostly the Christmas cards have arrived, with their pictures and their annual letters detailing trips to the coast, braces for Sally, debate team championships for Billy and its off to college for little Susie and Matt.  Faces are smiling, life is good.  I usually write a Christmas letter of my own, I love to do that.  Its a nice bit of fiction, isn't it?  We're happy, we're good, never mind the dust elephants or the piles of dog crap in the yard or the coating of dirt on the windowsill.  

Its sort of like this blog -- it could all be a load of hooey for all you know.  Maybe I'm not really me at all, maybe I'm an overweight 57 year old man named Walter who lives in his mother's basement and has bad skin and a deep and abiding love for frozen pizza, Star Trek collectibles and a real light saber.  OK, well, maybe I'm really me.  But how do you really know that? 

I think the cold medicine is getting to me.  I've been sick since Christmas, actually since Christmas Eve, and I'm beginning to suspect that somehow this is tied in to the fact that I was just not as good as I could have been all year.  Hard to imagine me getting any better, I realize, but there you have it.  I was naughty and Santa caught me out.  Hence, the nasty little virus that's currently creeping its way through my upper respiratory system.   I managed to haul my sick ass into work today, which in retrospect may have not been a good idea as in my current state I'm crabbier than a pregnant sow in August and I've probably managed to spread the plague to every poor soul inside a 50-yard radius.

So my imagination, fueled by two big fizzy tabs of "plop, plop, fizz, fizz, kiss your sinuses goodbye," reads the Christmas letters and wonders what the world would be like if the fiction of 90% of the world's Christmas letters (mine included) were erased, and people wrote about their actual lives.  The parts with the fingerprints on the windowpanes, cat piss under the bed and the crack pipe hidden inside the toilet paper roll.  The lives where spouses cheat, we doubt our sanity, we fail at our jobs and we drink ourselves into oblivion nighly before 5:30 PM.  Where our kids are likely shaping up to transform into carnival sideshow freaks or third world dictators.  Where that cute puppy in the picture is actually a vicious animal who took out half the neighborhood cats this fall and currently sits in a dark, steaming corner, salivating hungrily as he plots ways to take down the guy who reads the water meter every month. 

Hi friends!  Well, I made a mess of everything this year.  My fiance broke up with me in March after he met a cute little redhead in the supermarket checkout line. He's known her for a long time but once she got that boob job he lit out for greener pastures.   I'm trying to keep my head above water, although  I can't seem to pay a bill on time to save my life and my ass grew three sizes. Most days I pick my kids up from school still wearing my pajamas.  I haven't had a real haircut in something like 8 months and the batteries in my electric toothbrush have been dead for even longer than that.   The dog ran off a month ago but I'm not complaining because at least I don't have to buy dog food, although now I do have to clean the cat litter box a lot more now that he's not eating the poop out of it.  The kids seem to be surviving just fine, I haven't gotten any calls from the juvenile authorities in at least three weeks.  I managed to hang on to my job by a fingernail at least through the end of the year and if I'm lucky I'll get a severance package next year when they finally figure out I'm the one whose been stealing the toilet paper out of the bathrooms.  But for God's sake, have you seen the price of paper products lately?   Here's hoping our annual Christmas letter finds you in better shape than we are.  Love always, us.

 

Just blame it on the cold medicine.  I do.

 

Oooh, you're entitled all right.

In the completely egocentric world of a six year old, there are things worth wishing your mother dead for.  Or so I hear.

In the last week I've heard "I hate you!"  "I wish I had a different mother!" and even, "I wish you were dead!"

The first two I often just shrug at.  I clamp down on the response that wants to be said on the really difficult days, because even though I'm not fond of my son's behavior when he's throwing these kind of "I want something and you're not giving it to me" tantrums, the last thing I ever want him to think is that I don't love him. So I simply say things like "You're entitled, I suppose," or "I know you're mad at me right now, but I still love you no matter what."  I figure somewhere down the road he'll be legitimately mad at me for one of the many mistakes I've made or will make as a parent, and I want him to know its OK to be mad and I probably deserve it -- but he should save the UNLIKE button for true blue parenting offenses.  Not the fact that I won't buy him a damn hot wheel every time we go to grocery shopping.

It can be something as little as the drive-through gave him a toy he didn't really want and I won't turn around and go ask them for a different one. Or that he didn't want to leave the activity he was doing as the sitter's and I made him go anyway because I was on a deadline to pick his sister up on time.  Or I don't give him a sugary snack that he's asked for, instead offering something along the lines of fruit or yogurt. 

I have to hand it to him, he is one stubborn kid.  Reminds me of myself in some ways. And I know this is  something that many kids go through.  I try not to overthink it.  But when your six year old, from the back seat of your car, says "I wish you were dead," as you're driving him home on an icy highway filled with 18-wheelers and farm equipment, it sort of takes you aback.  Actually, if you're me, it makes you cry a little bit.

I think parents of special needs often find themselves in a conundrum where we have to learn to separate what is simply normal childhood behavior and developmental change from behaviors that stem from the disorders.   Its hard sometimes to tell.  I'm afraid if I just chalk something up to normal development, then I'll fail to bring it up to the doctor and it turns out it was important.  But if I bring up every little thing that transpires, then I feel like I'm being overly concerned about minutiae.

I'm looking forward to the passing of this phase, if that's indeed what it is.  I know my daughter went through one similar, but I don't remember it being as bad as this or as prolonged.  Maybe its something like what we do mentally with childbirth - it sucks while its happening, but after its over we tend to forget some of the more unpleasant details in act of self-preservation.  We remember it as being better than it actually was, which is nature's way of ensuring we might be fooled into doing it again at some point in the future. 

This WILL pass, right?

I really screwed up

I injected what I think was a note of sarcastic humor into yesterdays post.  At the time I was reeling, and trying to make it at least a little funny was my own way of coping with what was happening around me.

I also didn't want to post too many details, because at the time I thought the reason the sitter was jailed was because of something far more innocent than the real reason she was in jail.  Today I learned why she had been arrested, and let me tell you, when I learned why, my blood ran cold.

Let's start at the beginning. My sitter was last employed by a family in my town as a full time nanny for their two children, the older of which has autism and needed a caregiver experienced in special needs.  According to testimony and news stories, not too long after she started working for this family, the mother confessed to her that she wanted to kill her husband and run away to Mexico.  Some weeks after this confession, the sitter realized that the woman was actually serious and informed the husband, who then involved the police.  The police involved the sitter in a sting operation whereby the wife thought the sitter was helping her to obtain drugs to help her in her endeavor, but which were not really drugs and the whole pass-off was videotaped and wiretapped.

The wife was arrested and charged.

Six weeks after this, the husband fired the sitter and obtained a restraining order against her, claiming that he thought she was trying to take the children and was giving them drugs.  The sitter responded with a restraining order in return, things got all weird and sordid.  The wife eventually took a plea deal to lesser charges and was released from prison with credit for time served.  A month ago, the sitter filed a lawsuit against the couple in civil court for damages related to defamation of character, etc.

The police have never charged the sitter with any crime, though they thoroughly investigated her.

Because the sitter was never charged with anything, my background check which included a search of all felony arrests or warrants, turned up NOTHING.  A misdemeanor from when her daughter was a teen and stole her car, where the sitter claimed that she had let the child drive in order to keep her out of trouble, but she had told me about that in the interview.  In fact, it was comforting to me to see that she was so truthful she had owned up to the ONLY thing that came up on the background check when I ran it after the interview.

Had I run a simple search engine lookup on her name, I would have learned the details of the family she had worked for before.  In all likelihood, I would not have hired her.  Not because I thought she had done something wrong, but because there were active restraining orders and ongoing court cases and I don't need my children in any way involved with someone who is a tad notorious, even superficially.

Instead, I trusted her, gave her a key to my home.  Allowed her to pick up my children from school.  Take them to the library and the park and to her house for macaroni and cheese.

What I did not know:

This woman was in an ongoing battle with some long term acquaintances.  Over the weekend she told police the women had attacked her.  An investigation ensued, and no evidence could be found that such an attack had taken place.  What the police were able to find, though, was damning evidence that my sitter was engaging in a threat campaign against these women via text, email and voicemail, leaving them threats.  Serious threats, including a threat to "beat one victim to a bloody pulp with a bat" until she was dead.

Yesterday, after learning she was jailed, I went home early and had my locks changed.  I assumed, offhand, that she had been arrested for mistakenly violating a restraining order.  I thought I might be overreacting, but I wanted to make sure I took steps to keep my family safe.  After learning of the details of her arrest, I am glad I took those steps.  

I am horrified, reeling, unsettled, shocked.  At any point my children could have been harmed by this apparently unstable woman.  I don't know the details of the feud with the other women involved, but heaven forbid one of them was retaliatory toward my sitter AND MY CHILDREN WERE WITH HER.  Or if she had been arrested this week any day but the day I work from home, and my children had been present.  My mind keeps going over and over all of the details, fragments of conversations, thoughts, observations.  In no way did this woman seem to be the kind of person that would leave someone violent threats.  If anything, she just seemed a little too nice and possibly even naive.  I was completely mistaken about her character and the reality of what was going on in her private life.

Lessons?  Many.

Background checks are NOT enough.  An interview is not sufficient.  There are many good unlicensed people out there providing childcare.  I was unlucky enough to find one of the few who was a high risk.  There was nothing in her manner or words or ANYTHING to indicate she was a potential danger.

I'm not even upset about needing to find yet another caregiver for my children.  I'm grateful instead, grateful that my children were not harmed.  Perhaps they were never really in danger, but in my opinion we dodged a bullet on this one.  Things that could have gone wrong didn't.

Ultimately, I count myself at fault.  It is my job to protect my kids.  To be thorough in researching the people who are providing their care.  I didn't do that.  If my kids were in danger, they were in danger because I didn't do my job.  I'm incredibly thankful that the cost of learning this lesson wasn't as high as it could have been.

There's a lesson in this

Nothing good can last

DO look a gift horse in the mouth

Nothing is ever quite as good as it seems

If it seems too good to be true, it probably is

And last, but really not least:  ALWAYS GOOGLE THE PERSON YOU ARE THINKING OF HIRING AS YOUR SITTER.  BACKGROUND CHECKS ARE RIDICULOUSLY NOT INFORMATIVE.

You'd think that researching the criminal background and historical address files of a person would be sufficient.  If you're like me, you'd never assume that anyone in your relatively small community might have some notoriety.  If you're like me, you don't read much beyond the first few lines in local newspaper stories unless they have to do with you personally or are about politics.

So if you're like me, you might one day find that your babysitter does not show up at 7 am as expected.  You might leave her a few messages and then start to get worried because you know of some health issues she has.   You might make other emergency arrangements for your childcare because you have a very busy day at work and meetings that require your presence.  On the long drive to work you might start trying to reach the few people you know who might be able to check on her.  You might start imagining her passed out or even worse alone in the apartment she shares with no one.  You might even, after you get to work, try to locate someone at the church she is a member of to see if someone can check on her.  Finally, you might call the local police to go to her apartment to do a "welfare check" to see if she is OK.

While you're waiting for the officer to call you back, you might consider that maybe there was a car accident that she was involved in or something similarly catastrophic, and thinking that perhaps if the newspaper reported it they might include a victim's name, so you might google her name.

That's when you find out all the things that probably would have prevented you from hiring her in the first place.  And when the officer calls you back to say that she failed to show up for work today because she is in jail?  By that time you won't be the least bit surprised.

Then you'll leave work early, go home and have your locks changed. 

 

I weep for the girls

This post was:

Until we had monumental changes in life leading us away from group daycare, my daughter attended an aftercare program that had housing in a portable at her school.  Every day after class she would go there, play with other kids, do arts and crafts, and generally have fun.  Every once in a while she would get herself in a little trouble and get a write-up that her dad or I had to sign when we picked her up.

One day when I arrived to pick her up after work, there was a report for me to sign.  It stated that my daughter had punched a boy in the privates.

Wow.  Apparently we teach them early, here.

Before I signed the report, I wanted to understand what had happened.  I asked the young lady in charge if she knew why my daughter had done this.  "No, I didn't ask her," she shrugged.  I asked my daughter to come over to talk with us.  "A, this report says you punched _____ in the privates.  Did you do that?"  She looked me straight in the eye.  "Yes, I did, Mommy."  "Ok.  Can you tell me WHY you punched him in the privates?"

"Well, I was sitting over there," she pointed at one of the long tables, "drawing, and he came over to me and put his hips in my face and wiggled them," she demonstrated, "and said to me "TALK TO MR. WIENER!!! So I punched him."

I looked at the now-pale face of the young lady in charge as I ripped up the report.  "I'm not signing this, and unless you want me to start a stink about why you let my daughter be the recipient of sexual harassment on your premises, you will not only write up that boy but you will make sure that his family understands that if it ever happens again and he is allowed back here I will report you."

My daughter seems to know, instinctively, that her body is hers and not to be messed with.  We talk about the uncomfortable subjects - unwanted touching, what is an "Ok" touch and a "not ok" touch.  She and my son have my unwavering promise that if anyone ever does something to them that they are not comfortable with, if they tell me about it I will take care of it.  If someone tells them that if they tell me then that person will hurt me, I assure them that I am bigger and stronger and meaner than ANYONE and NO ONE is going to kill me if they tell me about unwanted touching.

They will not always be here for me to protect.  Already, as they go to school, get bigger, do more things outside the safety of my eyes watching them, the possibility of harm looms bigger and more frightening. 

Tonight I read this post over at Karen Sugarpants' blog, and I can't even begin to express how disheartened and upset I am.  That any young woman would tolerate such blatant harassment disturbs me more than I can put into words. 

Tonight I look at my privates-punching daughter, and I think, "Don't change.  Don't ever EVER change.  Punch that guy in the dick for all its worth, sweetie."