My sweet middle sister hosted Fall Family Fun Day this year. What is this event, you ask? Well, dear reader, it is a totally fabricated holiday celebrated annually by the Ross Clan. FFFD was the brain child of my sisters and I years ago, when my big kids were very little. I'm not sure exactly what spawned the idea but it grew to an EVENT, that rivals Christmas in the hearts of my children, and family. Family is always invited, friends, and friends of friends are welcome; it is a whole day affair. Amanda said this year there were over 50 in attendance. Over the years we've had:
-pumpkin decorating
gourd bowling
apple bobbing
carmel apple decorating
football matches
face painting
pumpkin seed spitting contests
pumpkin carving contests
and lots, and lots of food (brunch and then mid afternoon a chili cook-off)
Great grandma rocking babies, new ones every year, it seems.
Last year we missed FFFD, as we were just surviving a cross country move. We had no friends or family to celebrate with; it was sad.
This year, gratefully, we do have people we know and love that we COULD invite to celebrate with us. But I am hesitant to pull of such an event without my sisters, and mom and dad to help make it happen. FFFD is awesome, but I wonder if it is as awesome without the family part? I wonder if the world at large will "get" this fictitious holiday?
This year :
-my mom fought breast cancer.
-My dad is God knows where. (Anytime there is news of new uprising in the Middle East I say to myself, "Oh, Crap, is Dad in Cairo, or Beruit, or the West Bank?" But that is a post for another day...)
My baby sister lives a country away, in New Jersey, of all places....
My middle sister hosted Fall Family Fun Day without us. I'm glad she did, but it is triggering a bout of homesickness.
And seasons change...this year there is no Thanksmas with the Wood Grandparents, or FFFD in Littleton at Dad's. I am thankful for the season that was; it was rich with family, and I am learning to press into where God has us now. It is good. It is good. It is good. Just different.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Posted with Blogsy
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Cognitive Dissonance, Baby
We're, just now, planning a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth. It's an American child's right of passage to pose for a picture in front of a gigantic fake castle with a gigantic fake mouse. True?
And yet, I am keenly aware that "happy" isn't reality for many.
A friend received an awful diagnosis.
My mom-in-law is trying to stitch together a world that works for a boy who is living through stuff that would make anyone threadbare.
There are babies in Haiti, and Alemeda County, and everywhere that are just now, as we plan our vacation, experiencing the neglect that leads to attachment disorders. And, dammit, I keep bumping up against the truth of it when I'd rather forget.
The very going to Disneyland is an irony, actually. I'm trying to decide if we need to get a "guest assistance pass" for our littlest since her's are invisible disability. The sensory overload and transitions could be unmanageable without accommodation. But we accommodate so well, and she CAN behave so typically that I'm afraid that people will think we are just cutting in line. So I thought...I'll just get her one of those t-shirts like the kids with autism get, so people won't judgeme us if there is a melt-down. You know the ones that say, "I'm not being naughty, I have autism." - or whatever. I don't think this dilemma would exist if the Mouse could truly deliver utopia. The happiest place on earth is still a broken place.
Tangent: So is giving a kid a t-shirt that spells out her diagnosis to random strangers just totally jacked, or only a little jacked? The fact is that when they see her "behaviors" they are already labeling her (bratty), but the t-shirt would at least give the correct label, right? K. Probably jacked. And I'm probably wanting to go the whole t-shirt route because I want for people to think I have it together-ish. Which is pretty lame. Tangent finished.
So the cognitive dissonance is wrapped around the idea that I shouldn't really be spending money on vacation when the world is broken. I should be doing something about the brokeness, like beyond Space Mountain. Or, at least, we should be using the money to buy new tires, and put some into a 401k. Disney is so playful and frivolous and exorbitant and I am a grown up...
But the world is broken. And I have this little tiny window to lean into where I am - with these 4, and this man. We are within a days drive to vacation central. We are buying a memory, and investing in relationships. And these are the good things in the broken. So we will celebrate them. There is no dissonance in that. It is a chord resolved. Intentionally, we fuel relationships so that we have the relational capital to influence our children to see a world beyond themselves. And the venue of choice happens to have an animated human-sized rodent as it's mascot. This makes sense, people, it does.
And yet, I am keenly aware that "happy" isn't reality for many.
A friend received an awful diagnosis.
My mom-in-law is trying to stitch together a world that works for a boy who is living through stuff that would make anyone threadbare.
There are babies in Haiti, and Alemeda County, and everywhere that are just now, as we plan our vacation, experiencing the neglect that leads to attachment disorders. And, dammit, I keep bumping up against the truth of it when I'd rather forget.
The very going to Disneyland is an irony, actually. I'm trying to decide if we need to get a "guest assistance pass" for our littlest since her's are invisible disability. The sensory overload and transitions could be unmanageable without accommodation. But we accommodate so well, and she CAN behave so typically that I'm afraid that people will think we are just cutting in line. So I thought...I'll just get her one of those t-shirts like the kids with autism get, so people won't judge
Tangent: So is giving a kid a t-shirt that spells out her diagnosis to random strangers just totally jacked, or only a little jacked? The fact is that when they see her "behaviors" they are already labeling her (bratty), but the t-shirt would at least give the correct label, right? K. Probably jacked. And I'm probably wanting to go the whole t-shirt route because I want for people to think I have it together-ish. Which is pretty lame. Tangent finished.
So the cognitive dissonance is wrapped around the idea that I shouldn't really be spending money on vacation when the world is broken. I should be doing something about the brokeness, like beyond Space Mountain. Or, at least, we should be using the money to buy new tires, and put some into a 401k. Disney is so playful and frivolous and exorbitant and I am a grown up...
But the world is broken. And I have this little tiny window to lean into where I am - with these 4, and this man. We are within a days drive to vacation central. We are buying a memory, and investing in relationships. And these are the good things in the broken. So we will celebrate them. There is no dissonance in that. It is a chord resolved. Intentionally, we fuel relationships so that we have the relational capital to influence our children to see a world beyond themselves. And the venue of choice happens to have an animated human-sized rodent as it's mascot. This makes sense, people, it does.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
How Public school became excellent marketing for homeschool...at least in our case.
When a person writes she ought to have a well thought out premise or thesis. Be forewarned: I do not have a thesis. I am doing catharsis, which is different and messier. Join me or don't, but I need to say these things.
The suckage factor was really high when did our first serious stint with public school last year. One of my children did just fine - theoretically. He just came home with a newly acquired bad attitude about being inconvenienced by those who were younger and weaker than himself. So for all the talk of tolerance, the attitude being sponged up at school was one of intolerance. And the language and behavior of this attitude were being wrung out in our home. Not cool. But, sadly, it was benign compared to my other kids' experience.
My daughter had the misfortune of being in a class of a tenured teacher. Tenure isn't so bad if its a fabulous teacher who has it. I believe many fabulous teachers are tenured. However, there are some real skunks in the bunch. And the thing is that public school teachers are up against some major hurdles. Their funding stinks, they must teach to a (lame) test. The system is clunky, classrooms are large, kids come to school burdened by the brokenness of their own lives. Good teachers have a challenge. Bad teachers don't have a prayer. What's worse is that they can do real damage. My daughter started having panic attacks about reading out loud, and hid in the bathroom to cry. Things fell apart for this smart girl, but she could have made it, I think. She could have survived. Not thrived, but survived.
But for my youngest son school was devastating. He was placed with 2 teachers doing a job share. Word on the street was that one of these teachers was quite the yeller. And from the few times I was in the classroom I tend to believe it. This class was also full of kids with special needs, so many that any teacher would have struggled. Plus, there were 30 kid in the class to begin with, many of whom were English language learners. My son was placed in a table group between two boys with severe ADHD. As my son also has ADHD (well no H, actually) there couldn't have been a worse spot in the room.
Caleb was not unfamiliar with the classroom. He'd had lots of OPTIONS teachers (via our old homeschool charter) And he'd had a loving Kindergarten teacher and wonderful aides at the little Christian school we attended. Yet as he floundered, the teachers dismissed my cries for help by saying that because Caleb had been homeschooled he simply didn't know how to behave in a classroom (he wasn't misbehaving), and that he had not been given educational opportunity.
Never mind the ADHD, or the strong suspicion of auditory processing issues. I was just his educated, invested mother meddling. What could I possible know about my child?
All of my kids were stunned by the harshness of their teachers and the misbehavior of the students. Caleb was floored. He developed some SERIOUS school anxiety. He stopped eating, couldn't sleep and was plagued by nightmares. By the time we unenrolled him, I was literally having to drag this unassuming, laid back kid out of the car and force him into the classroom. Not going to school was a hill he was willing to die on. He hated it.
The only silver lining is that I became absolutely certain that there was something BIG going on. My son was drowning. So the RTI (response to intervention) process began, at my insistence. What they don't tell you is that response is slow and the intervention is inappropriate. There is push back when you ask an underfunded, overworked school staff to spend cash and resources on discerning the precise problem and crafting an appropriate educational plan. The law says that every student has the right to a "free and appropriate education", yet the RTI process can become a loop hole to get around having to actually write a 504 or an IEP. Plus, with so many kids acting out, it's relatively easy to ignore a quiet, underperforming kid with his head in the clouds.
The one thing they tell parents going through this process is that a parent should never attend a student study team / IEP / 504 meeting along. But who was I to bring? Eddie had to watch the kids, and we didn't know anyone in the state of California. I thought, I'm pretty smart and articulate. I know what I want for my son; I don't need to bring anyone. Pfft. I was the girl tied to the tracks and the Student Study Team and School Bureaucracy were the locomotive headed my way. It was totally traumatizing. I was so utterly pissed and flabbergasted.
So we enrolled Caleb in a homeschool charter and I started homeschooling again. Lo and behold my son started to eat and sleep. He began to learn. He was smart, gained confidence, and became his well adjusted self. Yet the issues didn't disappear. ADHD was still looming; the auditory processing challenged that were debilitating in a classroom faded into the background. But something was amiss.
So as we began this year I donned my nerd cap and went investigating. It turns out that the specific auditory weakness my son has are more akin to language processing issues, and could be classified as a specific learning disorder. In short: Dyslexia. I just needed a diagnosis to prove it. So, I began the process again, through our charter. This week we had a meeting that was akin to a student study team. I was have PSTD flashbacks, and was ready for a fight.
Guess what happened? The literacy coordinator listened to me. She took me seriously. She offered some suggestions, and agreed we'd need to monitor progress. Then, she offered a 504. Offered it. What's more she ordered the (expensive) testing to be done. Just like that. Without me asking. And she was ... nice.
I. am. stunned.
So. Grateful .
And so sure we made the right choice. It is hard work. It is unconventional. But it is best for us in this season.
Two others didn't
The suckage factor was really high when did our first serious stint with public school last year. One of my children did just fine - theoretically. He just came home with a newly acquired bad attitude about being inconvenienced by those who were younger and weaker than himself. So for all the talk of tolerance, the attitude being sponged up at school was one of intolerance. And the language and behavior of this attitude were being wrung out in our home. Not cool. But, sadly, it was benign compared to my other kids' experience.
My daughter had the misfortune of being in a class of a tenured teacher. Tenure isn't so bad if its a fabulous teacher who has it. I believe many fabulous teachers are tenured. However, there are some real skunks in the bunch. And the thing is that public school teachers are up against some major hurdles. Their funding stinks, they must teach to a (lame) test. The system is clunky, classrooms are large, kids come to school burdened by the brokenness of their own lives. Good teachers have a challenge. Bad teachers don't have a prayer. What's worse is that they can do real damage. My daughter started having panic attacks about reading out loud, and hid in the bathroom to cry. Things fell apart for this smart girl, but she could have made it, I think. She could have survived. Not thrived, but survived.
But for my youngest son school was devastating. He was placed with 2 teachers doing a job share. Word on the street was that one of these teachers was quite the yeller. And from the few times I was in the classroom I tend to believe it. This class was also full of kids with special needs, so many that any teacher would have struggled. Plus, there were 30 kid in the class to begin with, many of whom were English language learners. My son was placed in a table group between two boys with severe ADHD. As my son also has ADHD (well no H, actually) there couldn't have been a worse spot in the room.
Caleb was not unfamiliar with the classroom. He'd had lots of OPTIONS teachers (via our old homeschool charter) And he'd had a loving Kindergarten teacher and wonderful aides at the little Christian school we attended. Yet as he floundered, the teachers dismissed my cries for help by saying that because Caleb had been homeschooled he simply didn't know how to behave in a classroom (he wasn't misbehaving), and that he had not been given educational opportunity.
Never mind the ADHD, or the strong suspicion of auditory processing issues. I was just his educated, invested mother meddling. What could I possible know about my child?
All of my kids were stunned by the harshness of their teachers and the misbehavior of the students. Caleb was floored. He developed some SERIOUS school anxiety. He stopped eating, couldn't sleep and was plagued by nightmares. By the time we unenrolled him, I was literally having to drag this unassuming, laid back kid out of the car and force him into the classroom. Not going to school was a hill he was willing to die on. He hated it.
The only silver lining is that I became absolutely certain that there was something BIG going on. My son was drowning. So the RTI (response to intervention) process began, at my insistence. What they don't tell you is that response is slow and the intervention is inappropriate. There is push back when you ask an underfunded, overworked school staff to spend cash and resources on discerning the precise problem and crafting an appropriate educational plan. The law says that every student has the right to a "free and appropriate education", yet the RTI process can become a loop hole to get around having to actually write a 504 or an IEP. Plus, with so many kids acting out, it's relatively easy to ignore a quiet, underperforming kid with his head in the clouds.
The one thing they tell parents going through this process is that a parent should never attend a student study team / IEP / 504 meeting along. But who was I to bring? Eddie had to watch the kids, and we didn't know anyone in the state of California. I thought, I'm pretty smart and articulate. I know what I want for my son; I don't need to bring anyone. Pfft. I was the girl tied to the tracks and the Student Study Team and School Bureaucracy were the locomotive headed my way. It was totally traumatizing. I was so utterly pissed and flabbergasted.
So we enrolled Caleb in a homeschool charter and I started homeschooling again. Lo and behold my son started to eat and sleep. He began to learn. He was smart, gained confidence, and became his well adjusted self. Yet the issues didn't disappear. ADHD was still looming; the auditory processing challenged that were debilitating in a classroom faded into the background. But something was amiss.
So as we began this year I donned my nerd cap and went investigating. It turns out that the specific auditory weakness my son has are more akin to language processing issues, and could be classified as a specific learning disorder. In short: Dyslexia. I just needed a diagnosis to prove it. So, I began the process again, through our charter. This week we had a meeting that was akin to a student study team. I was have PSTD flashbacks, and was ready for a fight.
Guess what happened? The literacy coordinator listened to me. She took me seriously. She offered some suggestions, and agreed we'd need to monitor progress. Then, she offered a 504. Offered it. What's more she ordered the (expensive) testing to be done. Just like that. Without me asking. And she was ... nice.
I. am. stunned.
So. Grateful .
And so sure we made the right choice. It is hard work. It is unconventional. But it is best for us in this season.
Two others didn't
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
I maintain: Adoption is not Ideal
In response to an anonymous commenter:
(scroll down a post or two for the context.)
I'm not sure you'll ever read this...but here goes:
Adoption is redemptive. Adoption is good. Adoption has been a priceless gift for us. And in many situations adoption is the very best possible choice for a child.
And I maintain: Adoption isn't ideal. Ideally, 2 people committed to each other (in marriage) have a baby together in circumstances that allow them to parent forever. Ideally, this is how it works.
Anytime a baby/child is removed from his or her birthmom there is trauma; no one in the field of adoption or neuroscience, or chid development disputes this. And rarely (especially in today's adoption) is that the only trauma a child faces. Some kids are really resilient, and sometimes the trauma is minimal and in those cases families may see little fall out. That's great, and I would say it is also increasingly rare.
Also,I cannot conceive of a birthmom out there who wouldn't call the termination of her parental rights traumatic. It is a deeply sad thing to not be able to parent your child. The very thought of it is like a punch in the gut. Sad, can give birth to beauty. But sad is alway the seed of adoption. It is.
I think I'm a "Hero", you say? Yeah, well maybe, once, I was enamoured with the romantic notion of "saving an orphan." But that was before she was placed in my arms and I was so humbled by the precious gift and daunting responsibility. I'm sure you understand. It sounds like you are a parent too.
She is my daughter, you see. She isn't an orphan. She's mine. I help her dress, and brush her teeth. I read her stories and apply band-aids when necessary. I get annoyed when I tell her for the zillionth time she needs to put on her shoes and she's still futzing with a coloring book. There is nothing heroic in the day to day. I am a mom; I am not a hero.
And let me assure you, my bio kids do not see their little sister as the "emotionally damaged adopted child". That's just totally offensive. They bicker with her, and love on her, and put up with her antics just like they do with each other. They are sibs - all four of them. The end.
But how many 10 year olds do you know that can spot the signs of disregulation and know immediately that "heavy work" will give the sensory input necessary to calm a situation? How many kids do you know that end up with sleep issues themselves because their sibling cannot regualte sleep cycles. The "bigs" (as we call them) have absorbed the impact of trauma. It was one of the great miscalculations of our journey to assume that my husband and I would be most deeply impacted by the choice to add to our family. It's not a "them" vs. "her" thing. It just is the reality of living with a child with a disability. And her disabilty is not adoption - that isn't a disability per se. But my daughter's story, and the lifelong challenges she will face, cannot be seperated from the circumstances that led her to us. And her "melt-downs" are not of the typical variety. They stem from brain differences. But as you are an anonymous commenter, you would have no way of knowing this.
Incidently, my bio son also has some acronyms. And, incidently, those impact our family too. We are savvy about his stuff, as well. But this particular story was not about that.
And, um, I may not yet be a veteran parent , but I'm no rookie, either. So, yeah, I've had a kid or two lose it before. Heck, I've thrown a juvenile hissy fit a time or two.
This is not the same. At all.
Get to know a child with FASD. Talk to a momma raising a child who has come from very hard places. Be slow to judge, because you know not of what you speak.
The mammas who commented before you have walked a very hard road. Until you have walked it too, please be slow to judge.
-CurlyJo
(scroll down a post or two for the context.)
I'm not sure you'll ever read this...but here goes:
Adoption is redemptive. Adoption is good. Adoption has been a priceless gift for us. And in many situations adoption is the very best possible choice for a child.
And I maintain: Adoption isn't ideal. Ideally, 2 people committed to each other (in marriage) have a baby together in circumstances that allow them to parent forever. Ideally, this is how it works.
Anytime a baby/child is removed from his or her birthmom there is trauma; no one in the field of adoption or neuroscience, or chid development disputes this. And rarely (especially in today's adoption) is that the only trauma a child faces. Some kids are really resilient, and sometimes the trauma is minimal and in those cases families may see little fall out. That's great, and I would say it is also increasingly rare.
Also,I cannot conceive of a birthmom out there who wouldn't call the termination of her parental rights traumatic. It is a deeply sad thing to not be able to parent your child. The very thought of it is like a punch in the gut. Sad, can give birth to beauty. But sad is alway the seed of adoption. It is.
I think I'm a "Hero", you say? Yeah, well maybe, once, I was enamoured with the romantic notion of "saving an orphan." But that was before she was placed in my arms and I was so humbled by the precious gift and daunting responsibility. I'm sure you understand. It sounds like you are a parent too.
She is my daughter, you see. She isn't an orphan. She's mine. I help her dress, and brush her teeth. I read her stories and apply band-aids when necessary. I get annoyed when I tell her for the zillionth time she needs to put on her shoes and she's still futzing with a coloring book. There is nothing heroic in the day to day. I am a mom; I am not a hero.
And let me assure you, my bio kids do not see their little sister as the "emotionally damaged adopted child". That's just totally offensive. They bicker with her, and love on her, and put up with her antics just like they do with each other. They are sibs - all four of them. The end.
But how many 10 year olds do you know that can spot the signs of disregulation and know immediately that "heavy work" will give the sensory input necessary to calm a situation? How many kids do you know that end up with sleep issues themselves because their sibling cannot regualte sleep cycles. The "bigs" (as we call them) have absorbed the impact of trauma. It was one of the great miscalculations of our journey to assume that my husband and I would be most deeply impacted by the choice to add to our family. It's not a "them" vs. "her" thing. It just is the reality of living with a child with a disability. And her disabilty is not adoption - that isn't a disability per se. But my daughter's story, and the lifelong challenges she will face, cannot be seperated from the circumstances that led her to us. And her "melt-downs" are not of the typical variety. They stem from brain differences. But as you are an anonymous commenter, you would have no way of knowing this.
Incidently, my bio son also has some acronyms. And, incidently, those impact our family too. We are savvy about his stuff, as well. But this particular story was not about that.
And, um, I may not yet be a veteran parent , but I'm no rookie, either. So, yeah, I've had a kid or two lose it before. Heck, I've thrown a juvenile hissy fit a time or two.
This is not the same. At all.
Get to know a child with FASD. Talk to a momma raising a child who has come from very hard places. Be slow to judge, because you know not of what you speak.
The mammas who commented before you have walked a very hard road. Until you have walked it too, please be slow to judge.
-CurlyJo
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Homeschool Dorks
Ahmm...
This is awkward. Bear with me.
Yesterday, I went to a picnic feeling like a seventh grader with a big pimple on her forehead. It was, you see, a picnic for a homeschooling support group. After some internal wrestling, I had decided to join. The name of this particular group of homeschoolers is so flagrantly velveeta-esque in christian cheesiness I can barely palate it. I prefer to use the acronym, so I don't have to string this particular combination of words together - you know, out loud. In fact, if there wasn't already an acronym I would have made one up, just so I wouldn't have say I belong to a group by this name. I've always felt that if Christians are going to be dorky, they should at least try to be a little covert about it.
Yet there I was, four kids in tow, not sure if I should try to fit in, or burn my bra in some misguided attempt at defiance towards christian sub-culture dorkiness. Not that I actually would burn my undergarments, but can you imagine? All those homeschooling mamas shielding their babies' eyes? The very thought makes me giggle. Alas, I am not that bold, and my tween children would never forgive me. It would cost a lot in therapy, for them, and I am too cheap to send my kids to a counsellor for nonsence like that. They'll just have to wait until we really screw them up.
But, I digress.
Thing is: I have 4 kids; I homeschool them, and I am a Christian.
So, I look the part. Heck, I AM the part.
But I get a little itchy with it. 'Cause I was going to marry a rich guy so I could hire a maid, and a personal secretary. Then, I was going to do a little work with an NGO, and do a little writing. Probably, I'd end up with a Pulitzer, you know, that sort of thing. It's not that having children was entirely out of the question. But I thought they would be sort of a side gig, or passtime, to augment my real life - as a socialite/humanitarian/award-winning author.
And yet...there I found myself, picnic in hand, four children who shared my sur name, running ahead. And I stood on a precipes wanting to belong, and desperately not wanting to belong. It was so junior high.
I think God was laughing at me.
For all my talk I am a middle class mother of four children. I homeschool them, for Heaven's sake (really for Heaven's sake). We go to The Church of Obnoxiously Large Crosses. Bottom Line: I derserve to belong to a group with acronym that stands for a name of dubious quality and unquestionable dorkiness.
God served a dish of humble pie to me yesterday at that picnic. I met some people I actually really like - including those who were probably integral in chosing the name of this support group. They're smart, articulate, and successful. And they're not even weird. The prize for arrogance goes to ....me. For God shows up in the most unlikely places, and as it turns out, he is not all that concerned with hanging out with the not-so-hip crowd.
I think he might even prefer them.
Which is good for me, because the whole Pulitzer/Rich Girl/Humanitarian of Coolness thing is turning out to be something of a flop.
This is awkward. Bear with me.
Yesterday, I went to a picnic feeling like a seventh grader with a big pimple on her forehead. It was, you see, a picnic for a homeschooling support group. After some internal wrestling, I had decided to join. The name of this particular group of homeschoolers is so flagrantly velveeta-esque in christian cheesiness I can barely palate it. I prefer to use the acronym, so I don't have to string this particular combination of words together - you know, out loud. In fact, if there wasn't already an acronym I would have made one up, just so I wouldn't have say I belong to a group by this name. I've always felt that if Christians are going to be dorky, they should at least try to be a little covert about it.
Yet there I was, four kids in tow, not sure if I should try to fit in, or burn my bra in some misguided attempt at defiance towards christian sub-culture dorkiness. Not that I actually would burn my undergarments, but can you imagine? All those homeschooling mamas shielding their babies' eyes? The very thought makes me giggle. Alas, I am not that bold, and my tween children would never forgive me. It would cost a lot in therapy, for them, and I am too cheap to send my kids to a counsellor for nonsence like that. They'll just have to wait until we really screw them up.
But, I digress.
Thing is: I have 4 kids; I homeschool them, and I am a Christian.
So, I look the part. Heck, I AM the part.
But I get a little itchy with it. 'Cause I was going to marry a rich guy so I could hire a maid, and a personal secretary. Then, I was going to do a little work with an NGO, and do a little writing. Probably, I'd end up with a Pulitzer, you know, that sort of thing. It's not that having children was entirely out of the question. But I thought they would be sort of a side gig, or passtime, to augment my real life - as a socialite/humanitarian/award-winning author.
And yet...there I found myself, picnic in hand, four children who shared my sur name, running ahead. And I stood on a precipes wanting to belong, and desperately not wanting to belong. It was so junior high.
I think God was laughing at me.
For all my talk I am a middle class mother of four children. I homeschool them, for Heaven's sake (really for Heaven's sake). We go to The Church of Obnoxiously Large Crosses. Bottom Line: I derserve to belong to a group with acronym that stands for a name of dubious quality and unquestionable dorkiness.
God served a dish of humble pie to me yesterday at that picnic. I met some people I actually really like - including those who were probably integral in chosing the name of this support group. They're smart, articulate, and successful. And they're not even weird. The prize for arrogance goes to ....me. For God shows up in the most unlikely places, and as it turns out, he is not all that concerned with hanging out with the not-so-hip crowd.
I think he might even prefer them.
Which is good for me, because the whole Pulitzer/Rich Girl/Humanitarian of Coolness thing is turning out to be something of a flop.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Invisible Disability, Trauma, Attachment, and My Pride
It's not PC to say adoption changes things. Nor is it PC to say adoption is always predicated by brokeness. It's nicer to talk about "forever families" and "solving the orphan crisis one child at a time." But that, my friends, is spin. It tells one side of a story that is far more complex and messy. Adoption is never ideal. Never. It is only necessary when something goes wrong. Trauma, disability, attachment challenges are the reality in many adoption stories.
The people writing copy for adoption agency brochures weren't at preschool yesterday when I came to pick up my five and a half year old. Because the *#it that went down just then would not have made the cut for footage in agency promotional material.
The daughter of my heart did not want to come home with me. Even a little bit.
So, I pulled out my best Karyn Purvis therapeutic parenting tactics.
-I stayed light and playful.
-I gave time for transition.
I provided a transitional object and sensory input.
I tried distraction
then, I gave 2 choices given at eye level in a low calm voice.
fail, fail, epic fail, fail, fail.
So, as the awkward tension built in the room, and while on looking parents tried politely to avert eye-contact, I was left with one less than fabulous choice.
I hauled that kid up, gave her a giant bear hug, and made a bee line for the car to the soundtrack of: " I don't want to be with you, I love Miss Jenn (who she's known for a week). I want to stay at school forever."
And 30 minutes later she stopped. My eardrums are in recovery.
My older children have developed coping mechanisms for these type of public displays. They are far from uncommon, and my trauma savvy bio crew can spot the signs of a meltdown a mile away. They ask for the keys to the car and wait there until I can come to them. (Yes, CPS, I send my bio kids to sit and wait for me in the car. Yes, I know it is illegal. Yes, I believe it is the best, and safest option for them in these moments. So, rookie social workers, you can tell me how to raise my kids when you've broken a sweat restraining my out of control child, and lived to tell about it. Then, you may have an opinion.)
Anyway.
Sometimes I can figure the triggers to such melt-downs. Sometimes, I simply cannot. The preschool pick-up debacle was predicated by a tough transition morning, and an unexpectedly absent lead teacher, plus some weak cause and effect reasoning. My daughter felt that if she left, her lead teacher (whom she adores) might not come back to school. And she was a helpless, hysterical puddle. For me. She was delightful all during preschool, which is how it works, my friends. Mamas take the brunt of it.
Healing comes at a price, and sometimes healing doesn't come at all. Birthparents pay. Adoptive families pay. Adoptee's pay. Entire cultures pay. And the cost of early trauma is monumental.
So I pulled out a my figurative checkbook, and wrote a check to my daughter. The cost? My pride. Because, um, we got some looks, as she pummeled me and screamed on the way to the car. But what the preschool parent crowd didn't see was the 20 minutes we sat snuggled up in our favorite chair with sup-ups, warm milk, songs and soggy kisses. She is a precious treasure. I love her with my whole heart - so much it aches.
The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure that a man discovered hidden in a field. In his excitement he hid it again, sold everything he had to get enough money to buy the field.
The people writing copy for adoption agency brochures weren't at preschool yesterday when I came to pick up my five and a half year old. Because the *#it that went down just then would not have made the cut for footage in agency promotional material.
The daughter of my heart did not want to come home with me. Even a little bit.
So, I pulled out my best Karyn Purvis therapeutic parenting tactics.
-I stayed light and playful.
-I gave time for transition.
I provided a transitional object and sensory input.
I tried distraction
then, I gave 2 choices given at eye level in a low calm voice.
fail, fail, epic fail, fail, fail.
So, as the awkward tension built in the room, and while on looking parents tried politely to avert eye-contact, I was left with one less than fabulous choice.
I hauled that kid up, gave her a giant bear hug, and made a bee line for the car to the soundtrack of: " I don't want to be with you, I love Miss Jenn (who she's known for a week). I want to stay at school forever."
And 30 minutes later she stopped. My eardrums are in recovery.
My older children have developed coping mechanisms for these type of public displays. They are far from uncommon, and my trauma savvy bio crew can spot the signs of a meltdown a mile away. They ask for the keys to the car and wait there until I can come to them. (Yes, CPS, I send my bio kids to sit and wait for me in the car. Yes, I know it is illegal. Yes, I believe it is the best, and safest option for them in these moments. So, rookie social workers, you can tell me how to raise my kids when you've broken a sweat restraining my out of control child, and lived to tell about it. Then, you may have an opinion.)
Anyway.
Sometimes I can figure the triggers to such melt-downs. Sometimes, I simply cannot. The preschool pick-up debacle was predicated by a tough transition morning, and an unexpectedly absent lead teacher, plus some weak cause and effect reasoning. My daughter felt that if she left, her lead teacher (whom she adores) might not come back to school. And she was a helpless, hysterical puddle. For me. She was delightful all during preschool, which is how it works, my friends. Mamas take the brunt of it.
Healing comes at a price, and sometimes healing doesn't come at all. Birthparents pay. Adoptive families pay. Adoptee's pay. Entire cultures pay. And the cost of early trauma is monumental.
So I pulled out a my figurative checkbook, and wrote a check to my daughter. The cost? My pride. Because, um, we got some looks, as she pummeled me and screamed on the way to the car. But what the preschool parent crowd didn't see was the 20 minutes we sat snuggled up in our favorite chair with sup-ups, warm milk, songs and soggy kisses. She is a precious treasure. I love her with my whole heart - so much it aches.
The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure that a man discovered hidden in a field. In his excitement he hid it again, sold everything he had to get enough money to buy the field.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Abort! Abort! What Over a Decade of Motherhood has Taught Me
Today was Abby's second day of Preschool. She loves it. It exhausts her. And I had a plan.
It was a bad plan.
See we are out of food, and my kids are surviving on chocolate chips they are picking out of trailmix of questionable freshness. I decided that it was time to do a Costco run, and the only chunk of time big enough to pull this off was directly after preschool. But we only had an hour and a half.
My ill conceived plan was to take four hungry children to Costco, grab lunch and get home within a this 1.5 hour chunk of time. Even as we were heading in to Costco from the parking, I KNEW to the very core of my being that this was a bad call. Yet, we walked in the door.
The disregulation of a certain 5 year old was epic and palpable. She was wonky, and it was evident. But still I persisted. As I purchased four $1.50 cardiac arrest wrapped in tin foil and a ridiculously large piece of cholesterol laden pizza the situation deteriorated.
So we slammed down our junk food, and left san groceries.
This is important because, not 2 years ago, I would have persisted. Abby, my other children, patrons of San Leandro Costco, and I would have suffered the consequences of my poor judgement and insistence on persisting with a bad plan.
12 years into this motherhood journey I know better than to take hungry and tired children into a grocery warehouses. Heck, I knew that year one. But sometimes "knowing better" isn't quite enough to "do better" -at least not all of the time.
Here's what I know now:
A) Just because I start down a path doesn't mean I must persist. It is not some act of valor to stick with stupid to its long and ugly demise.
B ) (And this one is big) It is unfair and unkind to punish my children for my bad/poor planning. If I have set them up to fail then, lo and behold, they fail I should not be surprised. And I dare not punish.
I can abort mission. And that is the wisdom gained from more than a decade of motherhood.
Sometimes its best to push control, alt., delete on your day, and eat a half a box of Cheerios and wilty lettuce for dinner. Sometimes, that is success.
It was a bad plan.
See we are out of food, and my kids are surviving on chocolate chips they are picking out of trailmix of questionable freshness. I decided that it was time to do a Costco run, and the only chunk of time big enough to pull this off was directly after preschool. But we only had an hour and a half.
My ill conceived plan was to take four hungry children to Costco, grab lunch and get home within a this 1.5 hour chunk of time. Even as we were heading in to Costco from the parking, I KNEW to the very core of my being that this was a bad call. Yet, we walked in the door.
The disregulation of a certain 5 year old was epic and palpable. She was wonky, and it was evident. But still I persisted. As I purchased four $1.50 cardiac arrest wrapped in tin foil and a ridiculously large piece of cholesterol laden pizza the situation deteriorated.
So we slammed down our junk food, and left san groceries.
This is important because, not 2 years ago, I would have persisted. Abby, my other children, patrons of San Leandro Costco, and I would have suffered the consequences of my poor judgement and insistence on persisting with a bad plan.
12 years into this motherhood journey I know better than to take hungry and tired children into a grocery warehouses. Heck, I knew that year one. But sometimes "knowing better" isn't quite enough to "do better" -at least not all of the time.
Here's what I know now:
A) Just because I start down a path doesn't mean I must persist. It is not some act of valor to stick with stupid to its long and ugly demise.
B ) (And this one is big) It is unfair and unkind to punish my children for my bad/poor planning. If I have set them up to fail then, lo and behold, they fail I should not be surprised. And I dare not punish.
I can abort mission. And that is the wisdom gained from more than a decade of motherhood.
Sometimes its best to push control, alt., delete on your day, and eat a half a box of Cheerios and wilty lettuce for dinner. Sometimes, that is success.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Ethan has had a LONG year of school. He began the first part of August, and tomorrow (the middle of JUNE!!!) will be his last day of school. He is excited to be done. I'm excited for him to be done. I'm looking forward to having all my children at home. I'm looking forward to not doing the drop-off and pick-up routine. I am looking forward to connecting with my son.
As each of my children has come home they have had to acclimate to the pace of life here,and expect Ethan will have some trouble with it. He will assume that since he is home he shouldn't have to work. He will be impatient with the needs and desire of those around him. He will push against the restriction of family life, in other words, meeting the needs of others will be inconvenient to him. He will probably be a pain in the butt - for awhile.
But under that. He's a really great kid, who is just beginning to think big thoughts and really question the world. He wants to please and have a connections with his family AND he wants to be independent. He is nearly 12, and sometimes 8 and sometimes 35, and he will be taller than me soon.
The years ahead of him remind me that junior high was one of the most trying seasons of my life. This becoming is difficult business, and I feel so humbled and unprepared to walk my children though the new season.
Diapers, baths, and stories seems so easy in comparison. (Though talking to my baby sister about life with newborn is a good reminder that it ain't easy at all. ) This parenting an (almost) adolescent seems weightier, and I really really want to do it well. And I have just enough parenting experience to know that I'll screw it up regularly...just, hopefully, not permanently.
And that is why there's always Jesus and a good therapist....
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Farmers market
Peaches
Pluots
Rainier cherries
Strawberries
blueberries
Cantelope
Honeydew
Kale
Cilantro
Mixed greens
Mushrooms
Carrots
Red cabbage
Hummus
Artisan bread
California farmer's markets beat Colorado ones hands down. Emma and I ran around like kids in a candy shop scooping up deals just minutes before the Castro Valley Market closed. Delicious! Nutritious! Aesthetically pleasing, socially conscience, environmental stewardship. Plus a whole lot of fun.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Marriage
So we're in a small group that has been working through a book on marriage. A lot of the couples in our group have had, or are having, a bumpy go of it.
Eddie and aren't among them. Our marriage needs an occasional tune-up, but mostly its just pretty easy. That is not to say that our life together has been easy, but the actual relationship portion of things has been less difficult than what most people deal with.
So Eddie and I have been asking ourselves, "Why is it so easy for us when so many around us struggle." I guess that sounds arrogant, but it's a sincere question. Here's what we've come up with:
-Some of it's blind luck and grace.
-Most of it is having gone into marriage with an accurate perspective on what marriage is about, and how much it costs.
We got good council that went like this: "Marriage isn't about you're happiness, self-actualization, contentment or comfort. It's about you loving your spouse in a way helps him/her become his or her very best self. It will, more than likely, be uncomfortable for you and cost more than you can imagine right now.Sometimes to do this well you need need get some training. But people invest in the things they care about. If you care about your marriage you'll get smart about how to do it well. Learn to fight fair, and love well."
So, yeah, marriage is easy once you've resigned yourself to the fact that it isn't really about you at all. All of the sudden you discovered there isn't that much to fight about. You're too busy trying to do the best thing for the one you love.
NOTE: GIANT SIZED CAVEAT IS THAT THIS ONLY WORKS WHEN BOTH THE HUSBAND AND WIFE BUY IN. WHEN ONE OR THE OTHER OF THE PARTNERS IS BEING A SELFISH ASS, OR AN IDIOT DETERMINED TO STAY IDIOTIC - MARRIAGE JUST STINKS.
-And that is where the blind luck and grace comes in. Neither Eddie or I have the misfortune of being married to a selfish idiot.
-Which is not to say, necessarily, that if your marriage is bumpy that there is a selfish ass in the equation. Sometimes its just hard, and the situations, history, and personalities involved create complexity that could never be easy or simple. But even then it has the potential to be good. Just hard and good.
-For us to hand out marriage advice would be like those people with naturally compliant, bright and happy kids who look arrogantly out at the masses of less well behaved children and prescribe their dose of parenting wisdom. Some of the best parents I know have the most challenging children. And though it would be tidier to say that difficult kids are the result of sloppy parenting, sometimes it just isn't the case.
And so it goes with marriage. Some wonderful people, who work hard to be unselfish, and become students of marriage...well sometimes their marriages are still challenging.
Eddie and aren't among them. Our marriage needs an occasional tune-up, but mostly its just pretty easy. That is not to say that our life together has been easy, but the actual relationship portion of things has been less difficult than what most people deal with.
So Eddie and I have been asking ourselves, "Why is it so easy for us when so many around us struggle." I guess that sounds arrogant, but it's a sincere question. Here's what we've come up with:
-Some of it's blind luck and grace.
-Most of it is having gone into marriage with an accurate perspective on what marriage is about, and how much it costs.
We got good council that went like this: "Marriage isn't about you're happiness, self-actualization, contentment or comfort. It's about you loving your spouse in a way helps him/her become his or her very best self. It will, more than likely, be uncomfortable for you and cost more than you can imagine right now.Sometimes to do this well you need need get some training. But people invest in the things they care about. If you care about your marriage you'll get smart about how to do it well. Learn to fight fair, and love well."
So, yeah, marriage is easy once you've resigned yourself to the fact that it isn't really about you at all. All of the sudden you discovered there isn't that much to fight about. You're too busy trying to do the best thing for the one you love.
NOTE: GIANT SIZED CAVEAT IS THAT THIS ONLY WORKS WHEN BOTH THE HUSBAND AND WIFE BUY IN. WHEN ONE OR THE OTHER OF THE PARTNERS IS BEING A SELFISH ASS, OR AN IDIOT DETERMINED TO STAY IDIOTIC - MARRIAGE JUST STINKS.
-And that is where the blind luck and grace comes in. Neither Eddie or I have the misfortune of being married to a selfish idiot.
-Which is not to say, necessarily, that if your marriage is bumpy that there is a selfish ass in the equation. Sometimes its just hard, and the situations, history, and personalities involved create complexity that could never be easy or simple. But even then it has the potential to be good. Just hard and good.
-For us to hand out marriage advice would be like those people with naturally compliant, bright and happy kids who look arrogantly out at the masses of less well behaved children and prescribe their dose of parenting wisdom. Some of the best parents I know have the most challenging children. And though it would be tidier to say that difficult kids are the result of sloppy parenting, sometimes it just isn't the case.
And so it goes with marriage. Some wonderful people, who work hard to be unselfish, and become students of marriage...well sometimes their marriages are still challenging.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Abby is so transparent. She takes what she wants. It seems like 100 times a day we ask, "Does that belong to you?"
We expect an answer to the silly rhetorical question. And she delivers it with flair and volume, "But I want it!"
But I want it: that which belongs to another. You'd think I'd have outgrown such childishness. In fact, I thought I had out grown it.
Well mostly.
Alas, I am a big baby. And I want that which doesn't belong to me. I look at others enrolling their kids in public school and think, "I wish it were that easy for us." I watch other moms drive off to work and think,"I wish I could hang out with grown ups." I see the tiny little sedans that fits one measly carseat and think, "Life is sure easier for those who have fewer kids."
I picked having a large family. I picked intentionally being home with my kids. I picked homeschool. Becuase I thought these were the best choices for our family.
I still think they are. I like our life, until I begin to compare. Then I struggle some with discontent - which is basically wanting the someone else's life - which is childish. Which is humbling.
So I am working on sinking deep into my life. the one God gave to me. I'm working on living fully the one life God has given to me and I'm learning to be present in this season.
And when I do it well, I find I very much enjoy where I am, who I am, and this little tribe on the East Bay.
But I want it: that which belongs to another. You'd think I'd have outgrown such childishness. In fact, I thought I had out grown it.
Well mostly.
Alas, I am a big baby. And I want that which doesn't belong to me. I look at others enrolling their kids in public school and think, "I wish it were that easy for us." I watch other moms drive off to work and think,"I wish I could hang out with grown ups." I see the tiny little sedans that fits one measly carseat and think, "Life is sure easier for those who have fewer kids."
I picked having a large family. I picked intentionally being home with my kids. I picked homeschool. Becuase I thought these were the best choices for our family.
I still think they are. I like our life, until I begin to compare. Then I struggle some with discontent - which is basically wanting the someone else's life - which is childish. Which is humbling.
So I am working on sinking deep into my life. the one God gave to me. I'm working on living fully the one life God has given to me and I'm learning to be present in this season.
And when I do it well, I find I very much enjoy where I am, who I am, and this little tribe on the East Bay.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Ragged Edges of Mother's Day
It's Mother's Day.
I got breakfast in bed (let it be known: the man can cook) and have a few minutes to myself this morning.
Over the years Mother's Day has become increasingly important to me. Really, it's more important to me than my birthday. I guess so much of my headspace, time, and heart are devoted to my role as mother that it feels good to have what I do and am acknowledged. But Mother's Day is emotionally loaded...
Today, is Abby's 5th birthday. We celebrated yesterday, and I could hardly believe in the remembering that the journey that brought her to us really began almost 7 years ago. How could that be? Adoption, Abby's adoption story, and our adoption journey continues to be one of the narratives that most profoundly effects my life and outlook. The story can be told from many perspectives, and the one that I am struck by today is that Abby turns 5 on Mother's Day, and somewhere back in Denver she has a birth mom that hasn't seen her since her day of birth. Of course, she couldn't, and can't parent. Yet, I wonder about her sometimes. I am so profoundly grateful for the opportunity to love our little girl, but Mother's Day has ragged edges for Abby's birth mom. I know it, and today in the joy there is just a little sad too.
Also, I'm thinking of my mother-in-law, for whom I am profoundly grateful. I lucked out in the mother-in-law department and scored not only an amazing husband but a woman that kinda rocks as a grandma and is so easy and fun to be around. This Mother's Day must be hard for her, because her mom passed away. G.G. King was a sweetheart who has needed care nearly all of Eddie's life. For years - decades - my mother-in-law has mothered her mom. I am sure she is is sad. And how then does one shelf the confusing roll of daughter/mom she has handled with grace for so many years? Again, the ragged edges of motherhood...
A country away my baby sister sits ripe to popping with a 4th child she will welcome and love with her whole heart, though this little guy was a surprise she hadn't planned for. And, only half a country away, my other sister juggles the complexity of being a full time mom and having a career in the grown-up world too. Motherhood, is not tidy; it is a complicated, heart-rending thing.
My mom is far away today. She was a good mom, the kind that had warm cookies waiting when we got home from school. She was the mom that kept the kitchen stocked with teenage friendly food, and made our home a place our friends liked to hang out. Smart woman. She is far away today.
My mom did the job of mothering well, and in doing so sort of worked herself out of a job. She is the one that taught me that being a mom is having your heart walk around outside your body ( and in my mother's case, having your heart walk around in 3 different states simultaneously). Her mother heart hasn't changed but the daily-ness of her roll has. That feels like the ragged edges of motherhood too.
I read, just recently, a blog that said most poignantly what I am trying to say. The author described a piece of art that portrayed a mother and her ducklings in a nest. The tag line told the story of moms everywhere. "The mother duck lines her nest with down she has pulled from her own chest." Isn't that the way of it? Good moms line the nest with down that they have pulled out of the best of themselves. It's love this giving of the best. But , frankly, that momma duck had bald patches on her chest. And had she been human and on the shiny pages of a grocery store magazine, someone would surely have photoshopped the heck out of her. And so doing lost the beauty of story.
The San Francisco Bay Area is a cosmopolitan region, and having four kids is like signing up to be the traveling exhibit of the freak show. The bald patches feel conspicuous here. I feel like Eve in the garden with not a shred to wear - naked with the vulnerability of motherhood. Who would have thought the simple act of lining a nest with down would feel so flagrantly counter-cultural?
So this motherhood thing, it's more than a gig. It's a statement, and a quiet rebellion. Here's to bald patches and ragged edges!
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Learning Humility
Humility can be learned at Costco.
I hate Costco runs. They are an enormous amount of work in and of themselves, and are followed by an enormous amount
of work packing, unloading, and restocking our kitchen (that wasn't designed with Costco trips for a family of 6 in mind). In California, as far as I have been able to discover, Costcos are always jam packed with people. So I try to go during the week when at least some of the throngs are at work. This means we must quickly bust through homeschool in the morning and squeeze in a Costco run between homeschool and swimming lessons and be back by 2:50 to pick up Ethan from school. I pack a cooler, and try to streamline everything possible to make our trip efficient.
Efficient and four-year-olds are antonyms.
Efficient and four-year-olds with FASD are uber-antonyms.
I am not setting up myself, or my children to be successful with this little Costco stunt.
And this is how I found myself stuck with a cart full of $300 worth of mostly unpaid for groceries covered in urine.
Can I just say that there is NO GOOD WAY to handle this situation. There is some obligation, I think, to finish ones purchase. And besides we needed those groceries, and the total excess of packaging actually protected everything from real urine damage. The produce and meat were already paid for, everything else was just drippy and needed to be hosed off and have the shrink wrap removed.
But it was awkward for the check-out guy, and the people in line. (Incidentally, all but the check-out guy decided to move lines, as, apparently, long waits are preferable puddles of pee.)
Also, it is awkward for the 8 and 10 year old siblings who are trying to all at once disappear, be helpful, and not slip in puddles of urine.
And the people watching me haul a pee drenched kid to the bathroom, dripping the whole way there, felt a little uncomfortable with the situation, I think.
And the four year old, was less than comfortable. She clearly communicated this by screaming and flailing. Ever notice how those big warehouse stores are kinda all echoey and tend to amplify noise?
If I had any ego left about superior parenting skills, it has gone the way of the rolls of paper towels drenched in pee.
But I am wiser, and more humble. I used to judge parents who let their children watch too much TV, or forgot to make their children comb their hair. i used judge when their children asked for candy in the check-out lines. I used to judge. No longer. Because sometimes life just goes that way, and the best you can do looks like groceries covered in urine.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
All because of a Jalapeño
Yesterday evening I had a meeting to attend. I left Eddie in charge just the hysteria was hitting full stride.
I'd made southwestern chicken salad for dinner, which seems innocuous enough. Until, Ethan decided to spice things up, by slicing raw jalapeños on his dinner. I suggested that this may be going overboard, and recommended he take a small sample before he sold out to the jalapeño ridden chicken salad. With one small bite the hollering and hyperventilating began. Which set into motion a series of "I dare you" stupidities. Emma ended up sobbing and blowing bubbles into a glass of milk trying to get it to cool down her flaming lips. Puffy eyed, puffy lipped, red faced with milk dripping down her chin, she couldn't understand why she was hard to take seriously. Watching the drama unfold Caleb decided it would be funny to feed a jalapeño to the dog. And when didn't produce the reaction he was looking for he decided to sword fight his baby sister. She, unexplainably, ended up with the blunt tip of a purple plastic light saber jammed into her eye socket.
Which is when I decided to leave.
Apparently, more drama unfolded after my departure -something to do with jalapeño juice in some kid's eyes.
It was a three ring circus.
About half way to my meeting I started to giggle. Because, if it wasn't happening at my house, and it wasn't my children it would be down right comical in a sort of horrific way. 5 miles down the highway I could find the humor that evaded in the moment. Even now I can't quite put my finger on why the giggles kept erupting; I imagine it has something to do with the level of chaos that seemingly sprung out of nowhere, and how often that moment of time can become a metaphor for a bigger slice of my life.
I'd made southwestern chicken salad for dinner, which seems innocuous enough. Until, Ethan decided to spice things up, by slicing raw jalapeños on his dinner. I suggested that this may be going overboard, and recommended he take a small sample before he sold out to the jalapeño ridden chicken salad. With one small bite the hollering and hyperventilating began. Which set into motion a series of "I dare you" stupidities. Emma ended up sobbing and blowing bubbles into a glass of milk trying to get it to cool down her flaming lips. Puffy eyed, puffy lipped, red faced with milk dripping down her chin, she couldn't understand why she was hard to take seriously. Watching the drama unfold Caleb decided it would be funny to feed a jalapeño to the dog. And when didn't produce the reaction he was looking for he decided to sword fight his baby sister. She, unexplainably, ended up with the blunt tip of a purple plastic light saber jammed into her eye socket.
Which is when I decided to leave.
Apparently, more drama unfolded after my departure -something to do with jalapeño juice in some kid's eyes.
It was a three ring circus.
About half way to my meeting I started to giggle. Because, if it wasn't happening at my house, and it wasn't my children it would be down right comical in a sort of horrific way. 5 miles down the highway I could find the humor that evaded in the moment. Even now I can't quite put my finger on why the giggles kept erupting; I imagine it has something to do with the level of chaos that seemingly sprung out of nowhere, and how often that moment of time can become a metaphor for a bigger slice of my life.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Bad poetry a la dishwashers
Yesterday began with a smoking dishwasher. (smoke,yes)
And a smokin' mad mamma.
I may have, perhaps, hurt some feelings on my evil rampage.
Perhaps.
Which thus led to our suckiest homeschool day on record in the state of California.
belligerence is contagious.
I am determined that it shall not be repeated today.
It will be sunshine and Lollipops even though the forecast says rain.
Such determination is generally met with opposition...
Yet I maintain-sunshine and lollipops!
Because, Dorothy ( whom I virtually stalk), says:
" it's about connection not control"
And I tend to believe her.
And really, my fuming did nothing to limit the smoke pouring from said dishwasher.
It only scorched the heart of one little guy who felt responsible.
Jesus, Jesus grant me grace even for days wrought with smoking dishwashers
If you can stop the sun, then surely you could stop my mouth, yes?
For it is in your Mighty Name I pray. amen
And Amen!
And a smokin' mad mamma.
I may have, perhaps, hurt some feelings on my evil rampage.
Perhaps.
Which thus led to our suckiest homeschool day on record in the state of California.
belligerence is contagious.
I am determined that it shall not be repeated today.
It will be sunshine and Lollipops even though the forecast says rain.
Such determination is generally met with opposition...
Yet I maintain-sunshine and lollipops!
Because, Dorothy ( whom I virtually stalk), says:
" it's about connection not control"
And I tend to believe her.
And really, my fuming did nothing to limit the smoke pouring from said dishwasher.
It only scorched the heart of one little guy who felt responsible.
Jesus, Jesus grant me grace even for days wrought with smoking dishwashers
If you can stop the sun, then surely you could stop my mouth, yes?
For it is in your Mighty Name I pray. amen
And Amen!
Friday, March 16, 2012
This is my Portion
Yesterday, I went to the doctor to have my prescription for anti-depressants filled. So, I started counting back. Emma is nearly 10, and it was after her birth that I first went on anti-depressants. I rock post-partum depression, and am prone to depression even without the "post-partum" piece. It's been the better part of a decade then, that I've walked this path. I've not always been on medication but major stressors trigger a chain reaction in my head. Depressions hits and I don my cement boots, and I've not found any way to chip away at the cement except to pop a pill that the changes my neurochemistry. I'm okay with that.
For the last 3 years I've been on 1/4 of the recommended minimum dose of Wellbutrin for adults. It's a really, really small dose. One that, theoretically, shouldn't really have any effect at all. But it seems to help me.
Actually, I think I'm nearly at a season in life where I could be without medication. But I'm not ready to try life unmedicated until I my foot is better and I can run again. Excercise is part of my own anti-depression plan. So is sleep. And a healthy diet. And living in community. And no major stressors. When all of these are in play, I can make it without meds. And I'm learning that the discipline of gratitude may just be as good of an anti-depressant as any SSRI on the market. So me unmedicated, may be in in the near future.
This last ten years has been full of babies and toddlers, and sleepless nights. It's been a season of physical and emotional exhaustion. Which, obviously, would contribute to depression. But I think another thing that factors into my neurochemistry is how I sometimes wear my life like an itchy sweater. I am learning to accept where I am, to sink into it, and be present. I am a dreamer and idealist, and there are dishes to do. The mountain of laundry I face every week laughs at my lofty thoughts. So I am learning to be here. With the dishes. With the laundry. With these 4 and that sexy bald man. To mis-quote Anne Voscamp, "this vortex of ordinary can be inverted into a cathedral."
And that is what I meant to say, when I started talking about anti-depressants.
Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup
you have made my lot secure
The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.
PS 16: 5-6
For the last 3 years I've been on 1/4 of the recommended minimum dose of Wellbutrin for adults. It's a really, really small dose. One that, theoretically, shouldn't really have any effect at all. But it seems to help me.
Actually, I think I'm nearly at a season in life where I could be without medication. But I'm not ready to try life unmedicated until I my foot is better and I can run again. Excercise is part of my own anti-depression plan. So is sleep. And a healthy diet. And living in community. And no major stressors. When all of these are in play, I can make it without meds. And I'm learning that the discipline of gratitude may just be as good of an anti-depressant as any SSRI on the market. So me unmedicated, may be in in the near future.
This last ten years has been full of babies and toddlers, and sleepless nights. It's been a season of physical and emotional exhaustion. Which, obviously, would contribute to depression. But I think another thing that factors into my neurochemistry is how I sometimes wear my life like an itchy sweater. I am learning to accept where I am, to sink into it, and be present. I am a dreamer and idealist, and there are dishes to do. The mountain of laundry I face every week laughs at my lofty thoughts. So I am learning to be here. With the dishes. With the laundry. With these 4 and that sexy bald man. To mis-quote Anne Voscamp, "this vortex of ordinary can be inverted into a cathedral."
And that is what I meant to say, when I started talking about anti-depressants.
Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup
you have made my lot secure
The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.
PS 16: 5-6
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Public Record: These are Joy
-Fairy tales told by 4 year olds.
-Flowers blooming purple and white.
-10 year old girl making paper chains; content
-Pasta bar: Ethan makes buttered noodles drenched in hot sauce and eats it like its the best thing since sliced bread
-a resistant reader wanting to read
-reading to my children
-Flowers blooming purple and white.
-10 year old girl making paper chains; content
-Pasta bar: Ethan makes buttered noodles drenched in hot sauce and eats it like its the best thing since sliced bread
-a resistant reader wanting to read
-reading to my children
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Purple Space Bubble
FASD behaviors play out in lots of different ways in our home. Some of them are funny.
Being 4 years old, having sensory processing challenges, and impulse control issues is tricky business. Sometimes, without even knowing it, Babycakes annoys her siblings by being oblivious that she is encroaching on their space. She smooshes in, talks too loud and generally bugs. So, we've been talking about each person having their "personal space bubble." I have the big kids hold out their arms and slowly spin in a circle. We call the space within that imaginary circle our "personal space bubble". We always have the right to ask someone in our "bubble" to leave. People need their space.
I felt like we were getting some traction with this concept.
Then, the other day Abi-bo-ba-be came to me in tears. An older sibling had hurt her feelings with harsh words. "Hims popped my purple space bubble." she sobbed.
Okay, we are still working on the concept of personal space, and the subtle, yet important, differences between that and purple bubbles.
Here's another one. A prediction Emma made. Emma said, "Someday, when Abby is a grown up she'll be driving and a police man will pull her over. He'll say, "Ma'am, do you have any idea how fast you were going?" Then, Abby will chirp, "I got a new kitty; hers cute."
Eddie busted up laughing. Because it is so true. Funny and sad.
Abby is sweet natured. She doesn't hold a grudge, but neither does she make the connection between her actions and their potential consequences. And she's impulsive. Very likely, she would be genuinely puzzled by the officers frustration. And very likely, she'd strike up a totally irrelevant conversation. She's friendly, and her default when confused is to be charming - so dangerously charming.
People see Abby's cute little frame, and big brown eyes. She's just adorable, and she chatters merrily, stringing along a whole bunch of infatuated grown-ups. She's 4; it's cute. But it is also troublesome when she receives compliment from a random delivery man, and then declares, "I love that guy." And she means it from the bottom of her innocent little heart. Abby doesn't meet strangers. And when she is 4 that is probably just fine, but when she 16 it could be absolutely devastating.
We're in a conundrum about school for her next year.
-Private christian school is the better part of a grand each month. Lil' pricey - that.
-Public schools here have a great special ed program - that Abby doesn't qualify for. After all she knows her colors, and shapes. She can write her name and charm the socks off any therapist in sight. Abby would have ZERO classroom supports. She could get no supports until she demonstrates consistent failure in a typical setting. Lovely. Also troubling: FASDers do what they see; chameleons. Ethan is in one of the better schools in the district, and this year, in his classroom kids have been given detention for, cussing at and hitting the teacher. Yelling is par for the course. My neuro-typical, gifted, and totally confident kid comes home fried after a day in the classroom. Doesn't seem like a good place to send my little chameleon, now does it?
-We're left with letting Abby be a preschooler as a 5 year old, and buying us another year for her to mature, and us to decide. Sounds okay, yeah? or homeschool. That's a "maybe" too.
Being 4 years old, having sensory processing challenges, and impulse control issues is tricky business. Sometimes, without even knowing it, Babycakes annoys her siblings by being oblivious that she is encroaching on their space. She smooshes in, talks too loud and generally bugs. So, we've been talking about each person having their "personal space bubble." I have the big kids hold out their arms and slowly spin in a circle. We call the space within that imaginary circle our "personal space bubble". We always have the right to ask someone in our "bubble" to leave. People need their space.
I felt like we were getting some traction with this concept.
Then, the other day Abi-bo-ba-be came to me in tears. An older sibling had hurt her feelings with harsh words. "Hims popped my purple space bubble." she sobbed.
Okay, we are still working on the concept of personal space, and the subtle, yet important, differences between that and purple bubbles.
Here's another one. A prediction Emma made. Emma said, "Someday, when Abby is a grown up she'll be driving and a police man will pull her over. He'll say, "Ma'am, do you have any idea how fast you were going?" Then, Abby will chirp, "I got a new kitty; hers cute."
Eddie busted up laughing. Because it is so true. Funny and sad.
Abby is sweet natured. She doesn't hold a grudge, but neither does she make the connection between her actions and their potential consequences. And she's impulsive. Very likely, she would be genuinely puzzled by the officers frustration. And very likely, she'd strike up a totally irrelevant conversation. She's friendly, and her default when confused is to be charming - so dangerously charming.
People see Abby's cute little frame, and big brown eyes. She's just adorable, and she chatters merrily, stringing along a whole bunch of infatuated grown-ups. She's 4; it's cute. But it is also troublesome when she receives compliment from a random delivery man, and then declares, "I love that guy." And she means it from the bottom of her innocent little heart. Abby doesn't meet strangers. And when she is 4 that is probably just fine, but when she 16 it could be absolutely devastating.
We're in a conundrum about school for her next year.
-Private christian school is the better part of a grand each month. Lil' pricey - that.
-Public schools here have a great special ed program - that Abby doesn't qualify for. After all she knows her colors, and shapes. She can write her name and charm the socks off any therapist in sight. Abby would have ZERO classroom supports. She could get no supports until she demonstrates consistent failure in a typical setting. Lovely. Also troubling: FASDers do what they see; chameleons. Ethan is in one of the better schools in the district, and this year, in his classroom kids have been given detention for, cussing at and hitting the teacher. Yelling is par for the course. My neuro-typical, gifted, and totally confident kid comes home fried after a day in the classroom. Doesn't seem like a good place to send my little chameleon, now does it?
-We're left with letting Abby be a preschooler as a 5 year old, and buying us another year for her to mature, and us to decide. Sounds okay, yeah? or homeschool. That's a "maybe" too.
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