Another One Rides the Bus

This is the email I sent to our superintendent regarding some Autism fun on the bus.  

Dear Superintendent,

On or around November 5, 2015 an evacuation drill was performed on Bus [00] that included rear evacuation procedures.  My son, [The Middle Son], a 7^th grade student at [Your] Middle School was on the bus and participated in said drill.  [The Middle Son] has Autism.  During this drill, he fell from the back of the bus and injured his knee.  [The Middle Son] struggles with depth perception and has difficulty with steps.  Students laughed at him.  No one assisted him in his exit.  He was certainly the laughingstock.  No one attempted to address the silver dollar sized, bleeding scrape to his knee.  He was wearing shorts that day and there was a substantial amount of blood in his sock when he got home.  It was noticed by a teacher later in the day.  Still, not so much as a bandage was administered.

 

When I got home from work, I noticed the injury and cleaned and bandaged it.  On Saturday, he fell at home and broke the scab.  We continued to clean it and monitor it but it started to show signs of infection.  On Monday, November 9, 2015, I received a telephone call from the school nurse.  I was chastised for the wound and its care.  She explained that she was able to clean it up and apply another bandage.  My next telephone call was to Mrs. [Principal].  I explained what went on to that point.  She assured me that she would call the transportation department and see what she could find out.  I was then told that I would receive a call back.  It is now ten days later.  I was told on Monday, November 16, 2015 by Mr. [Principal], during our annual IEP meeting that the bus driver did not know of [The Middle Son]’s diagnosis and that they do now.  This is my “assurance” of my son’s safety during future drills or a real life emergency.  This is not acceptable. 

[The Middle Son] has attended [Your] schools since kindergarten.  He did take a brief hiatus during half of 4^th and 5^th grades and attended an online school as there were extreme difficulties with staff at [Your] Elementary school.  Upon his return to the district, a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder was presented with his enrollment documents.  It was actually required before they would complete his admission.  I would go into the 6 months that it took for the district to start preparing his IEP after I requested it, the 3 years it took for his Gifted services to begin because they were “overlooked”, the being told that “we would rather other students think he’s just ‘quirky’” rather than let him explain his Autism, but those are complaints for another day.  The bottom line is that [The Middle Son], his diagnosis and needs are not unfamiliar to the district by any means.  Also, bus forms were filled out stating his diagnosis. 

Section B of 3301-83-15 of the ORC “Emergency and evacuation procedures” states that “The superintendent or designee shall organize and conduct three emergency exit drills for all students who ride buses to and from school”.  It also states in (B) (2) that all drills shall be arranged and scheduled by the transportation director/supervisor in cooperation with building principals.  The drills shall be supervised by at least one staff person other than the driver assigned to that route.  I was told that there were two staff people at the time of the drill.  Section (B) (7) states that Emergency evacuation drills of preschool and special needs children may require modification of the procedures listed in paragraph (B). 

  

In the Ohio Preservice School Bus Driver Training Manual, pages 81-84 covering Emergency Drills and Evacuations – it is suggested that a “buddy” be assigned for special needs students.  A helping hand support method for rear door evacuations is also suggested.  Following these suggestions could have spared an injury.  I would expect a scraped knee during an actual emergency.  Honestly, I would welcome that over severe injury sustained during a fire, accident, or other disaster.  But this was not an emergency.  This was preparedness.  The driver was not prepared and, somehow, lacked essential knowledge to effectively ensure the safety of a student with special needs.  The school failed to properly communicate and coordinate with the transportation staff to accommodate a student. 

I take comfort in knowing that this could have been much worse and that now the staff and [The Middle Son] are more prepared in the event of an emergency.  What bothers me is the blasé attitude about informing me of what measures were taken to assure his safety during another drill, returning a phone call, and addressing an injury that required medical attention.  Has someone actually apologized to my child?  He is a student that struggles with social propriety and we use as many opportunities to teach good manners as possible.  All that I received was two spoken sentences during an IEP meeting.  Is this the norm for all students in the district with special needs?  Is this part of the reason that [Your School District] has received a “C” rating on servicing students with disabilities?  What is being done to remedy that?  What is the barrier here for touching base with a parent who expressed concern for their child?  What can be expected for [The Middle Son] and other students like him when it comes to bus safety? 

Thank you for your time,

Angry Momma Bear

Dear Tonya P....

I started this post almost 2 years ago.  As I help plan my 20 year high school reunion with my, then unlikely, friends I am reminded of the days of yore.  Let's take a trip back, shall we?

I sat outside of our alma mater, waiting for my amazing son to leave Chinese club.  While sitting in the car, I took a selfie.

Selfies get a bad rap as self indulgent, attention seeking, vain, moments caught in dirty bathroom mirrors, laying on a bed, or (as in my case) the car.  No doubt there are those.  And who cares?  Judging a person by the selfies they take only defines YOU.  Not the subject.  I see, regularly, via social networking, people picking others apart over a photograph.  Sometimes, it makes me ashamed of what we have become.

The selfie/former high school combo inspires a Facebook post wherein I wax poetic memories of the emotional terrorism that I suffered from 7th-10th grade.  18 years have passed since I bid that school farewell and so much has happened.  13 year old me would never have posed for a selfie.  You'd be hard pressed to find more than a handful of pictures of me from those years.  My yearbook pics are about all anyone has.

That leads my train of thought to a hot August day in 1991 when I took my first step into our Junior High.

The few years before were some of the worst in my life.  (If you don't know by now, here are the Cliff's notes: Taken off the street, beaten, raped, prevented from attending school, being freed, helping sentence my abuser to prison, dealing with the aftermath)  My 'rents bought a convenience store and moved away from my "safe zone" and all of my childhood friends that I loved so dearly.  Everything I ever knew was now a blurred view from the back of their car.  This move was supposed to be a fresh start.  No one at this new school would know what happened to me.  I could start over and not have it follow me.

I was cursed gifted with a very thorough memory.  Right now, first period class is escaping (pretty sure it was band).  And then second period is where I met them.  Our schools equivalent of Heathers.  They were pretty, rich, all the boys looked at them, all the girls wanted to be them.  Tonya appeared to be their leader.  She was one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen.  Perfect hair.  Perfect eyes.  Perfect clothes.  Perfect body.  Surrounded by friends.  I had insane frizzy hair, freckles, big, plastic glasses, and was the epitome of 90's notthecoolkind nerd.  And it was like some kind of alarm went off in them.  They turned to me and burst out laughing.  I wanted to curl up and die, right there.  I was a quiet, new girl, surely I would just stand there and take it.  And I did.  Much to my horror, they were in my next period Science class.  Since Tonya and I shared a starting last name letter, we were unfortunately close, initially.  She made good use of our close proximity.  We went on to share 1 more class.  I shared classes with her cronies all day.

She was so wretched and hateful to me and to the friends I was finally able to make.  It was like her only goal in life was to be as ugly inside as she was beautiful outside.  The things she said to me were mortifying.  I'd go home and cry and my 'ma would always tell me not to let them see me cry, they'd know they won.  I'd sit there, stone faced, pretending that I didn't hear them.  I broke my finger playing basketball in gym and when I came to school the next day with a splint, Tonya was the first to notice.  She made crude, regular, jokes about how it happened.  Most were sexually explicit.  I'd never encountered that behavior before.  My previous school was full of poor, black kids that never made fun of others.  I supposed at the time that only the poor had manners.  For the most part, that still holds true.

Once, we were sent to the hall to make up a science test and she asked me for all of my answers.  She failed that test.  I only know that because I got an A+ and I gave her every wrong answer on the sheet.  It was the only weapon I had.  She threw things at me in class - paper wads, fingernail clippings, gum wrappers.  Her friends took her lead.  In other classes, they would mimic her like sheep.  On the bus, on field trips, in the halls.  When I got my first boyfriend, they made fun of him for liking me.  They made fun of my friends for being awkward, fat, nerdy, whatever was "different" about us was exploited.  And it went on for 3 years.  There was no escape or recourse.

So, 18-21 years later, I sit here listening to the happy sounds of my kids and pray that I have filled their cups enough that when "Tonya" sets her sights on them, they will not be phased.  I pray that they will not overdose like I did.  I pray that they will not cut themselves like I did.  I pray they won't absorb the horrible words of small people, like I did.  I hope they will not resort to the rebellion tactics that I employed in defense.  I pray that they will stand up, like I eventually did.  So today, I write to the most popular, most pretty girl in the school -

Dear Tonya,
You tormented me for no reason.  You made me wish that I would evaporate.  You made me wish that I was dead.  The hateful things you said to me resonated for years.  I wonder what was so damaged inside of you that made you enjoy that type of amusement. I hear that you have a wonderful career out of state and far from here.  I'm glad that you have been so blessed.  One day, should you ever have children, I hope that you protect them from the type of person you were - both from replication and victimization.

And, I forgive you.

Very Truly Yours,
That Ugly Girl In Mr. Vaughn's 3rd Period Science Class

That Moment When....

(I wrote this exactly 5 years ago. It's still hilarious. We refer to it often. Not sure if we ever made it public though.  Enjoy.)

In an effort to prepare for the great "Back to School" festivities I decided to take the kids for haircuts.  If you'd seen The Oldest in the recent past you'd know that his hair was in an unfortunate state of entanglement.  It resembled an octopus type creature and growled at me any time I mentioned "conditioner", a "brush", or "hair cut".  After it made a meal request and invited guests over for a large dinner party I decided that it needed to go.  The Oldest could no longer keep it in check or calm it down so he agreed that the bonds must be severed.  The Middle and The Youngest Boy had been referred to as "she", "her" or "daughters" enough that they were also begging for cuts.  There's one particular girl that's cut the kids' hair for years and she happens to work at the salon ( a term I use loosely in this instance) inside Wal Mart and the kids like her a lot.  So I load up the Brangelina Brood into the Super Mom Van and head out.  As I'm backing out of the driveway I hear a familiar clicking noise that tells me that I'm in desperate need of an oil change if I really want to make it to West Mansfield this weekend. 

Hey- I like multitasking.  Makes me feel all productive and stuff.  So what could be easier???  Drop the van off at the Lube station in Wal Mart while I take the kids to get their mops chopped!  Brilliant!  I'm so smart.  :-)  This will be a cinch.  In we go, drop off the keys and head to the salon.  The Oldest is the first to suffer the indignity of the chair.  He starts by removing the Legend of Zelda beanie that has been firmly in place every day for the past 2 years.  The stylist gasped.  I tried to hide so that the people checking out did not see me standing near him.  Normally, I do my best to embarass my kids.  I don't get embarassed personally.  This was the exception.  But in order to complete the white trash sterotype I broke out the Flip and proceeded to take video footage for YouTube.  Maybe I'll send the clip to Daniel Tosh.  ;-)  The stylist went to work.  It took her 2 hours to brush out his hair.  Seriously.  2 hours.  (Yup, I'm mother of the year!)  She then put it in a pony tail and snipped it off.  He briefly used it as a prop - he was a horse - and then it bit him.  We wrestled it into a zip lock baggie.  It put up one helluva a fight though.  I had to bribe it with promises of cupcakes to get it into my purse.  Another stylist came in and took care of The Middle and The Youngest Boy in the meantime.  They all turned out pretty cute for a Wal Mart cut. 

About the time that they were all finished up the vibrating keychain that the Lube Center provided me was going off indicating that the van was complete.  At this point I am quite proud of myself!  Mini-Me had been good the whole time, the boys were getting antsy but nothing I couldn't handle.  So I pull out my wallet to pay the lady and my heart stopped.  The whole world went topsy turvy for a moment.  My debit card - my ONLY access to money - was NOT in my wallet.  Frantically, I pulled every card from it and sorted through them....  Kroger Plus card, CVS Rewards Card, Sally's Club, Edge Card, K Mart Special, Big Lots Rewards, my useless ATM card, my drivers license.  None of them could pay for the haircuts.  Then it dawns on me.  My debit card is on the couch.  At home.  My van is in the shop.  Even if I could leave The Oldest at the salon I couldn't run home because I can't pay for my van! Oh.  Holy.  Hell.

Just then Mini-Me breaks out into a frenzied cry for a boob, The Youngest Boy starts jumping off of seats, The Middle is hungry, The Oldest is bored, the stylist wants her money and her hefty tip for braving the violent tendrils of my 14 year old, everyone and everything is louder and I can feel my face running the gamut of every shade of red known to man.  I'm sure it settled on a deep crimson.   My brain starts to go into high gear as my adrenaline starts to rush.  My sister is at work, in Kettering.  It's 4:00.  No one is home.  What the hell am I going to do???  Okay - I'll text everyone in my phone book that could possibly assist.  Jessy was already workin.  Then I call Amber who can be there in an hour and a half.  I've got to be at The Middle Son's school for 2nd grade orientation and I promised a trip to JD's Custard.  Finally, Kyle comes through.  He will come and get The Oldest, run him to the house and then bring him back.  In the meantime we must wait in the salon.  I whip out a nipple for Mini-Me and ask the boys to sit down and be patient.  Help is on the way!

As I am nursing Mini-Me, The Middle has to pee.  I agree to letting him run to the restroom.  Well, The Youngest Boy  takes off after him.  So I jump up - Mini-Me still attached to my right breast - and try to chase him down and get him back where he belongs.  Yeah - that wasn't humiliating in the slightest.  Around 4:40 Kyle arrives and grabs The Oldest.  There was a light at the end of the tunnel!  By this time the boys have maxed out the attention span.  They're restless.  They've invented a game out of a nickel and the floor which ends in a fight and crying.  I want to shrivel up and die.  Or evaporate.  Anything other than this!  Every second that Kyle and The Oldest were gone went so slowly.  I could hear every tick of the clock.  Finally, they return with the card in hand!  I apologize profusely for the stylists inconvenience and generously tipped her.  Then we headed to the Lube Center and retrieved my keys.  I drove away from Wal Mart like Barney Oldfield (he was an old race car driver that my dad always compared us to). 

We made it to JD's.  Not to orientation though.  I know, priorities!  Went home as fast as we could and decided that we won't be going to Wal Mart any time soon.   Be on the lookout for my pic on Peopleofwalmart.com in the next week or so.   

Look Up at the Stars, Not Down at the Mud

She was a quiet and mild woman, until you made her angry.  Then, she morphed into Hurricane Louise.  Even when she was her most angry, she kept a cool exterior with nothing more than a scowl that meant Hell was about to be unleashed.  She was fire and ice.  

Growing up, she taught me about the joy of still pastimes and peaceful play.  She would take me outside, into the woods near our cabin or where she grew up in Tennessee, and tell me to listen to what nature had to say.  Listen for the sounds of whippoorwills and various other birds, sounds of streams, sounds of the summer wind rustling the leaves of the old oak tree, or the echoes of whatever unseen wildlife scampering in the distance.  She would not ever appear to be the outdoorsy type – with her curled hair, lipstick, tailored wardrobe, and high heels.  Underneath her skin lived a woman who knew the trails of South Pittsburg, the mountains of Alderson, and all things Earthly.  She’d lead me through these forests, holding my hand, and would stop to show me everything.  She’d collect a handful of her favorite wild blackberries to share.   She’d reach down and pluck a sprig of spearmint and tell me of how she brushed her teeth when she was a young, poor girl during the Great Depression.

She made her way through poverty to grow up and become a college graduate, a member of the University of Dayton Aerospace Mechanics Research Department, a business owner, a mother, a grandmother, and a great grandmother.  Even though her own mother passed on when she was only 6, she still managed to overcome so many of life’s obstacles without much of a complaint.  I was, and still am, in complete awe of her. 

She spoiled me from the day I was born.  Elaborate playrooms for all of my neighborhood friends, fresh fruit platters with her famous dip, vacations in our camper, swimming, museums, plenty of backyard recreation, and anything we ever wanted.  There was still plenty of emphasis on sharing, caring for others, respecting our fellow humankind, and the importance of excelling in education.  She worked hard and was a wonderful role model.  She was a talented needle artist – crochet, cross stitch, embroidery, and sewing.  She made me dolls, doll clothes, doll bedding, my own dresses, and costumes.  I’m not entirely sure, but I think she had a time turner.  She collected antiques and books and prepared herself a substantial library in our basement, divided in sections, and complete with a card catalog.

We’d spent the better part of 1998 perfecting our potato soup recipe.  She and my dad owned a convenience store together and after he was diagnosed with cancer that year, I joined the family business to help ease the stress.  We worked side by side by side and I loved and hated every minute.  By the time I was 23, she’d become my best friend.  She loved spending time with The Oldest.  She taught him to love asparagus and made him full plates of bacon to snack on and The Legend of Zelda (because she was an avid gamer).

The end came slowly.  She fell apart a little at a time. It wasn’t noticeable to those of us that spent every day with her.  I see pictures of her now from then and wonder how I didn’t see it.  It was so subtle.  A doctor visit here and there and then news that didn’t carry the weight that it should have.  Congestive Heart Failure, a blocked valve, and an aneurysm.  This stubborn old woman’s clock was wearing down and for as slowly as it was creeping it was tremendously fast. 

There is no real way to prepare yourself for that call, for that face to face meeting with a  cold police officer, for hearing those words, for seeing that sight, for holding your father up,  and for breaking that news to someone else.  Severing a bond that strong is unimaginable and I hope that it’s the worst pain that I ever experience.  She brought the life, this mother of mine, into the house and into my world, with her final heartbeat all was vacuumed out.  With an emptiness that can only be understood by those who have touched it – I robotically finished the day.  I held her hand and kissed her soft cheek one final time and closed the door to the room that held her last breath and felt a numbness that I cannot describe.  There was silence inside of her and I felt it inside of me.  And every August 4 from then to now and beyond – I remember that ache of nothingness. 

When times get hard, I speak to her as though she is still sitting on that couch or on the other end of the telephone receiver.  I sometimes unload my burdens to her and imagine her gentle, wise responses.  Her voice is still rich in my head and my mind can piece together words from old conversations to form the guidance that I need.  Poetic stitching replaces motherly advice.  A handmade doll reflecting an uncanny likeness to her face that sits on my dresser fills in for that physical void even though it doesn’t hug back.  I am left to travel through life with ghosts and on most days that’s enough.  But today, I long for arms and voices and being five with my hand small in hers listening to the crisp sounds of crunching foliage underneath our feet and innocently looking up to her smiling face, completely oblivious of this pain. 

Obi-Wan, You're Our Only Hope!

Breaking out my best Leia impression and mustering up my calmest, least snarkiest, most empowering, annoyed, sarcastic tone for this post.  Carrie Fisher take the wheel...

I came across this article this morning.... And usually I swipe on by because, frankly, unless it's a fellow mom - I don't much care. Most blurbs about autism are full of stats that came in the disheveled, half torn, half chewed, droll covered, wine soaked, and smeared "handbook" that comes with a new diagnosis.  Some are all about miracle cures up to and including bleach cocktails.  Many are, indirectly, stating that death from some horrible disease is a more fortunate fate than the "disorder" that my child lives with on a daily basis.  And the damned comments.  Cripes, people.  What THE ACTUAL FUCK is wrong with those people?

This morning I was feeling froggy.  It was a local article doing some Q&A with some new therapist with some new practice touting its success with bridging gaps between ASD kids and educators.

She's the Autism Whisperer.

We are saved.

Maaaaaybe I'm cynical.  Maaaaaybe this isn't the week.  I'm frustrated with our school system, again.  Maybe I'm pissed off that some dillhole community group page leader deleted my query looking for other kids that share the same interests as my son because she doesn't know how to read.  Maybe it's all the things.  All of them.  Maybe.

But she uses the most cringeworthy line I can think of - "We have hope."

Are you fuuuuuuuuuucking serious?  "Hope".  We have "hope".

What does that mean exactly?

We ran out of cheese, milk, bread, eggs, and peanut butter - but we have "HOPE!"

Congratulations, Spectrum Families - WE HAVE HOPE!!! HOPE HAS ARRIVED AND JUST IN THE NICK OF TIME!

Rejoice!

Plenty of hope to go around!  Form a line!

As if "Hope" has arms and legs, a pulse, shoulder length hair pulled back in a conservative, low bun, tortoise shell glasses, sensible shoes, and wears just the right amount of perfume.  She has her arms crossed and sleeves up and she's ready to kick some ass and take some names.

This is what people say that don't know what else to say.

This irritates me.  Obviously.

No shit we have hope.

Thanks lady.

I hope to win the lottery but that doesn't pay my bills.

That sounds dismal.  That sounds like everything else has failed and this is all that we have left.  Our Hope™.

Come back when you have Solutions.

Not solutions to the Autism puzzle but solutions to help make their lives the way they want them.  Encourage independence when possible.  Connect those in need with resources.  Help us advocate for our children.  Educate the public.  Foster compassion.

And for all that is good and holy in this world can we just get through a school year without having to ask a teacher to read the IEP?  Maybe attend a party where we aren't a sideshow?  Kid first, Autism second.  Please?

Keep the hope for World Peace, that the Kardashian's will quietly retire to some remote island with no social media, and maybe fat free cheesecake that tastes just like the real thing.

She Traded Her Voice to the Sea Witch and Got Legs

We all have body issues.

Some girls want bigger boobs.  Some girls want smaller ones.  A thinner waist.  A smaller nose.  A bigger butt.  Tinier earlobes.  More delicate hands.  Fewer wrinkles.  Cover the grays.  Suck in that stomach.  Slimmer necks.  Trimmer thighs.  Thicker eyebrows.  Blue eyes.  Blonder hair.  Less freckles.  A mermaid fin.

Make me someone else. But still me.  But I don't want to look like me.  Make me my fairy tale me.

I will be the first to admit that I have body dysmorphia.  I look at myself and have this distorted vision of what my whole body looks like.  This is a facet of anorexia.  Some days I check the mirror 4, 5, 6, or even 40 times.  Do I have muffin top?  Did that cookie I ate last week add to the cellulite on my ass?  Does that milkshake I drank define me?  How many calories determine my worth?  This insanity has to end sometime.

This is a gift from past child abuse. I was starved.  My body really just stopped feeling hungry.  It was a way to make me submit.  There's more to that... just not for today.  Anyway, when I got out of that cage I started taking control back.  It started with food.  I used to beg for it.  I used to cry for it.  Once I was safe and home, I could choose to eat.  I could choose to not eat.  There was the conflict though - I hated myself.  Brainwashed into being "fat" and "ugly".  Cutting my arms up was another outlet I found.  I wasn't being beaten anymore.  No more punches.  No more slaps.  No more kicks.  But those were my new normal.  I almost needed that pain.  Self mutilation and starvation were crutches.  They were ways for me to wean myself off of the abuse.  While, I packed up my favorite razors years ago, I keep Anorexia in my purse for emergencies.  Sometimes, I need to take a puff or 2 to get myself straight.  Usually, when someone has taken my voice away or I'm not able to use it for whatever reason.  But that cringe at my reflection is more present than I 'd like.  Much of my abuse was also sexual.   There were many days where I couldn't walk.  That's as far as I'll go with that, for now.  I got robbed of the beauty of sex.

A few months ago, to get out of the tailspin relapse I was in, I decided to try something else.  I'm pretty willing to try anything to get better.  This time, I decided to fulfill a bucket list item.  I have a great friend at Seippel Studios who happens to be a gifted photographer.  I also have an affinity for the pin up culture.  So I commissioned Shayna to shoot me - boudoir style!

I picked out some lace, some fishnet, some heels, and some courage and hit the studio.  And shutter click by shutter click I felt better and better.  There's something freeing about baring yourself.  It's not about the attention, for me.  I don't care about the opinions of others.  There is nothing worse anyone could ever say to me that hasn't already been said or worse than I've already thought. Insecurity is not flattering and you can smell it a mile away on some women.  I just wanted to be free.  I wanted to accept my corporeal self.  I wanted to feel comfortable in my own skin.  It was about me, entirely.  My husband is a very loving, and doting man who is generous with compliments and appreciation for my body.  But I needed to be, also.  I won't see myself the way that he does.  But, an idea would be nice.  The shoot wasn't a cure all.  I'm not sure that anything is.  What it was was a step towards a greater self acceptance.

And, it was so much fun.  Not gonna lie.  Doing my hair and make up and nails and dressing up - it was fun.  I got to be fairy tale me that was really just me, dressed up and un-retouched.  It was empowering.  I legitimately felt better.

Of course, there was much laughter.  And that helped.

People You May Know

Originally written on April 29, 2015-

Yesterday, I was browsing Facebook from my phone.  Skimming posts containing updates of riots in Baltimore, what everyone was having for lunch, crochet patterns and clever memes with The Most Interesting Man in the World, when my eyes met her face.  There she was – smiling with her mouth partly open, some bearded guy at her side  - under the title of “People You May Know” – my ex husband’s mistress. 

It’s been close to 5 years since I first encountered her name.  It’s been a good long time since I gave her a thought.  I have been happily rid of her and the object of her desires for quite a while.  There was the time she followed me on Pinterest.  Then the time when I was pitching my ex’s leftover possessions from my new home and some things she had given him were in the boxes.  Fortunately, most of her memory has been eliminated from the minds of my children as well.  (Unless we are talking about why The Middle Son despises his father and his plans to change his last name when he is old enough and why he doesn’t want me to fix his birth certificate to reflect his “father”.)  The Youngest Boy was too young to retain many of those memories.  Mini-Me was just an infant.  The Oldest remembers, but she’s one of those things that is only of negative significance and has long since been healed. Like the blank spot left after a tooth has been pulled. You can run your tongue across it and remember the sensation but the pain is gone. 

Years ago, the simple sight of her brought me to tears.  She was the last in a long line of side dishes my then husband sampled.  The torment she brought to my soul and to our family was unspeakable.  Though, the responsibility lies solely on the shoulders of her boyfriend who was supposed to be faithful and put his family first.  Instead, he used her.  He played games with her.  He’d bounce in and out of our marital home while she was away at school and none the wiser.  I was the wife.  I was the pregnant wife.  She was the intruder.  I didn’t and don’t owe her a damned thing.  And he picked her.  I did make an attempt to warn her of what she was getting into.  I tried to spare her the shit storm that she was about to enter.  But, being all of 18 – she already knew more than my 33 year old self did. 

That’s a hard blow to take when you are pregnant and watching your 3 children cry on a daily basis over the loss of their father for reasons they were too young to comprehend.  Until you have walked that path, you don’t know.  You don’t understand what that pain drives you to do.  You have no idea how you will react.  You just know that you have a hand that you don’t know how to play.  It’s a feeling of repudiation.  I was good enough to create a child with but she was the one good enough to run to afterwards.  In my mind at the time, this was the most difficult fact to absorb.  It took a lot of growth and thought to come to the realization that this was not rejection.  This was taking the easy way out.  She was a child.  A teenager – and too immature to see what she was doing.  She thought she was being chosen, she thought she was adored, she thought she was loved.  She was just easier.  They could live in this little fantasy world of song lyrics and dreams of Paris vacations, comparing their relationship with The Notebook and Hollywood promises.  But reality was that he was a broke, married guy that abandoned his family for the first piece of ass that bought his lines.  She was just too inexperienced to see it.  I felt bad for her.  How low is your self esteem when you will accept this as a “prize” that you “won”? 

She went for my children.  She made my unborn daughter the butt end of some joke.  She sent a fake email to my ex, knowing I had his email password, where she stated how excited she was that he was going to take care of their baby, planning a nursery, and picking out baby names.  She wasn't pregnant. What kind of person does that?  If that was my daughter behaving that way – I’d be mortified.  It would probably play out similarly to the #MomOfTheYear in the current riots.  Being with the right person is supposed to make you want to be a better human.  Was that better?  I’ll never understand.  But I fought back the best way you can when you are losing a battle for what is rightfully supposed to be yours.  Eventually, he came crawling back home with his tail between in legs and in the most cowardly way possible.  He left her a note and was gone before she came home one night.  He ignored her texts.  He declined her calls.  And nothing about it felt like a win.  Nothing about it was right and I told him so. 

In spite of the wretched behavior she exhibited – coming to my home, telling my children to call her “mom”, playing mind games that only children play – I have come to owe her my most sincere thanks.  Thank you, Katie, for the sleepless nights, for the awful things you did, for the part you played in the crashing burn of my marriage, for the hits to my self esteem,  for convincing Ex Douchebag to stay gone, for convincing him to file the divorce papers, for all of the parts you played.  Boy, did it hurt at the time.  But in retrospect – It was the greatest gift you could have ever given someone.  It was so easy for him to go, it was so easy for him to choose you, it was so easy to keep him away – you showed us what he was really made of.  You exposed him for the person that he was.  I became stronger than I ever thought possible in the process.  I saw through my sham of a marriage.  My backbone was already pretty solid but this experience strengthened it more than I realized.  I learned not to settle for anything less than the best.  I learned that I don’t need help to raise kids or even give birth.  I found out what I was made of.  I grew patience and understanding that I didn’t know I was capable of.  I discovered who my true friends were.  And, the door opened between Darling Husband and me. We reconnected after 15 years during that time. That, in and of itself, made all of those painful things worthwhile. 

I offer my most gracious and sincere extension of gratitude to her, and her family.  From it came so much positivity and happiness that I almost can’t even express it with words.  Ex Douchebag and his terrible family moved back to Texas.  My children have the most incredible step-father that loves them, takes care of them, sets an example for, teaches them, and is always there for them.  I have the husband that I deserve – he works hard, he’s loyal, he’s loving, he puts family first, he’s honest, he’s trustworthy, and he makes me laugh every single day.  He is talented, sweet, thoughtful, and gorgeous.  From a terrible act came such tremendous love.  I’m not bitter or angry anymore (I will still tell it like it is).  I’m just grateful.  I hope that she grows up, finds real love, and never has to experience what she helped do to my children and me.  I hope that she loves herself more now than she did then.  I hope that she develops camaraderie with other women and never wants to compete against another one for the affections of a man (or for any other reason).  I hope that she does something good with this experience.  I forgive her.   

So, Facebook, I’ll pass on the suggestion.  We’re already familiar and that’s enough for me.  

Double Edged Sword

2 months ago exactly, The Youngest Boy got another trip to the ER.

This time it was different.

This time his status card moved from a Level 3 (reserved for such afflictions as the common cold and Nursemaid's Elbow) to a Level 1 (indicating something serious) in less than 10 minutes.

This time, he almost didn't get to come home.

But, in true The Youngest Boy-style, and a whole lotta good doctoring - He bounced back.

Parents - do yourselves a hugantic favor and learn the signs of an appendicitis.  Err on the side of caution and take your kiddos in.  My little guy wouldn't be on the couch crying every time he laughed if I had just listened to him.  At some point in the 5 days of complaints of pain with fever, vomiting, and diarrhea his appendix swelled so largely that it burst and then became infected.  That infection then filled his body and damn near killed him.  After 5 days in the hospital, he came home on a picc line.  Prior to the hospital trip, he couldn't stand, eat, or drink and looked like death.  I've been scared in my life.  I've been terrified in my life.  Nothing I've ever been through has ever held a candle to this moment.  The infection was very tough but my little The Youngest Boy is pretty tough too.  He fought back while ordering every item on the room service menu and cracking hilarious jokes in an uncomfortable hospital bed.  Making the best of every second and finding the joy in every moment.

Darling Husband and I were bedside for the first 48 hours.  Then, the remaining days , it was just me.  We did our best to calm fear, provide assurance, and comfort.  We couldn't afford to both take time off, so Darling Husband had to go.  The Youngest Boy remained in good spirits for most of it.  Though, there was a lot of pain and a lot of uncomfortable procedures.  I can't imagine a second away from him.  I would have felt like a failure.  Darling Husband and The Oldest held the fort down at home.  They cared for The Middle Son and Mini-Me and did grocery shopping and managed a visit that lifted our spirits high.  For Darling Husband, it was never a question.  He came through and didn't let us down.  Some incredible friends brought food and boredom busters.  The Youngest Boy's class made him cards that his best friend brought over to him.

On the first morning of The Youngest Boy's' admittance, I did the legally obligated thing and I notified his "father" (a term I will permanently use loosely and with aversion and contempt).  I tried his number.  Of course, no answer.  Texts to no fruition.  Then, I messaged his niece.  An hour later, he called back.  I explained what all was going on.

 "Well, keep me posted."

Seriously?  Keep yourself posted, asshole.  It's your son.  Make the effort.  But no.  This is how he works.  Always has been.  It's someone else's fault that he can't be here.  Everyone gets the blame but him.  Usually me.  And you know what?  I WILL OWN IT.  Damn straight we're divorced.  Damn straight I wouldn't let him use me.  Damn straight I wanted better for myself and my kids.  And we got it.

 I honestly don't care what his side is.  He doesn't get one.  The Youngest Boy is the only one who has a side in this.  He was scared and things were touch and go for a while.  And where was his "father"?  1,312 miles away. He only knows that he loves his daddy.  He just knows that he wanted all of us next to him knowing that we care.  He is just an innocent little boy that can only see the light and goodness in other people.  He is so pure hearted and loving that he doesn't see what an astronomical  piece of shit he is.  He has called a few times to talk to The Youngest Boy and Mini-Me.  He knows better than to ask for The Oldest or The Middle Son as they have felt the inevitable burn of his irresponsibility.

Yesterday, he finally was well enough to have the appendix removed.  We spent another night in another hospital room and my little guy starts another recovery.  Again, spirits high and jokes plentiful.  He's currently watching another YouTube video and playing Minecraft with his little sister.  And another night that the phone doesn't ring.  This time, it went unnoticed.

At 8 years old, he has suffered so much monumental disappointment with his "father" that he didn't even ask for him. He didn't notice the omitted phone call.  I just can't imagine being able to live with myself after letting this marvelous blonde haired, blue eyed cherub down in such a profound way.  Let alone having the audacity of making my Facebook cover a photograph of myself with my abandoned children.  And to have the grit to accept compliments on my parenthood skills?

Tonight, I got out the thesaurus - literally - to see if I could unearth the term for this unwordable word.  Notwithstanding my diligence - I am left empty handed.

In Honor of Child Abuse Prevention Month

The fight started over food.  I was a "fat" little "wetback" who had no business eating this prestigious white man's food.  I remember thinking that I just wanted to go home.  Home to my biological grandparents.  Home, where I was safe and had enough to eat and no one called me names (other than "smart" and "beautiful").  The homesickness combined with the unfamiliar ache of hunger brought tears to my eyes.  They over flowed.

My mom sat there next to me and tried to hug me.  He didn't allow that.  So he hit her.  This was not an uncommon scene with her.  My piece of shit biological father got off on the same kicks.  Her mental illness made her an easy target for wolves in Christian clothing.  And boy did they feast on her weakness.  With the way they both kept lapping it up - it must have been delicious.  This particular blow brought out a pained whimper.  I couldn't stand to see her suffer.  I wanted to kill that son of a bitch.  Being 6 years old didn't hamper my acute awareness of what was going on.  I don't think I have ever been naive.  Not even was I was 3, watching her get her face stomped in.  I knew what that bastard was going to do to her and I knew what this one would do too.  The blood from her lip was bright against her skin.  My instinct was to hug her and when I tried, I got a matching wound.

This man was nothing short of a calculating, sadistic fuck who thoroughly enjoyed his role.  He knew how much it hurt the both of us to watch the other writhe and he used it against us.  I tried to understand what he was thinking.  I asked him why I wasn't allowed to eat.  My insolence led to more slaps.  My crying from said slaps resulted in punches.  My mom would try to comfort me and she'd endure more hits.  You lose a lot of the sense of time when you're sitting there like that.  Really, you have no idea if minutes or days pass.  At the same time, it escalates quickly.  After my final attempt to be with my mom failed, he made sure that I wouldn't try again.  His belt was already off, because nothing drives points home quite like leather, so he wrapped it around my chest and secured me to the spindles of the wooden chair.

He loved to hear himself talk.  I imagine that delivering racial slur filled hate sermons to a little girl was empowering to him.  He soaked up that power and it energized him.  I was so scared.  At this point, pain was really non existent.  You grow numb and callused after a while.  I was more so scared of the unknown.  He could walk away right now and leave me here or he could keep this up all night.  He chose the latter on this particular evening.  Then, when he'd had enough, he went to bed, dragging my mother along.  I stopped crying, maybe that's why he walked away.  But I was left there, alone, in the dark, still attached to the chair.  This was only the introduction.

Those memories are ingrained in my head.  They are like physical scars all over my soul.  Those, and the ones after.  While they are no longer abscesses, they remain present.

Child abuse happens to kids of all walks of life.  It comes in different shapes, colors, textures, and varieties.  If you get to survive, you are rewarded with trust issues where you walk around flinching for years to come, whether there's a threat or not.  You get to carry with you new self esteem issues that you didn't have before or self abuse to put control back into your own hands.  The aftermath is almost harder to endure than the abuse itself.  You grow accustomed to knowing where you stand - on the lowest rung.  You become comfortable with your position - submitting to someone else's sick commands.  You can't fall any lower.  The ground is stable.  It's when you climb out that Phase 2 begins.  The light of Freedom shines and most would think that this is a dream come true.  And it is, just not for a long time.  It freaks you out.  You start to come to grips with what happened to you.  You get to this safe place and after a bit it starts to sink in - what happened is not normal, it's not okay, and now you're really fucked up.  Now you're like a wild animal being tamed.  You bite the ones who are trying to help because you forgot (or were never shown) what good people really are.

Every year for the last 5 years or so, I've used Facebook to educate people of facts of child abuse.  But, after a while, people just scroll on.  It's a bunch of stale % signs and "1 in"'s.  So, I thought I'd share an incident from my life to personalize several facts.  Child Abuse is real.  Child Abuse can be stopped.  Child Abuse doesn't have to be the end of a life.  Child Abuse has consequences (a 1.5 year prison sentence in my case).  Child Abuse has lifetime impacts.  I wish someone would have stopped it that night.  It was a busy apartment complex.  I wish someone would have called someone and spoke for me.  If you know that a child is being abused (physically, emotionally, sexually) and you do nothing - please remember this and : and The Bright Side is Suicide.

If you need help or need to report abuse, please visit one of the links below.

Rainn

Report child abuse

Child Abuse Prevention Month 2015

1 (800) 273-8255

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

I'm not fat.

I'm not.  Logically, I know this.  114 lbs.  Size 4.  And that's after 4 kids and a whole lot of brownies.  Most of the time I can carry on like every day is normal and I don't think about her.  Something about this time of year.  Or maybe it's been going on for so long that it's all one long string of it and I didn't notice.

But here I am.  Today I decided that I need to go back to food check ins and accountability.  The signs have been popping up and it's becoming more and more apparent.  I am abusing food again.  Today, I sat at my desk and thought about what I was doing to myself again as I stared at 2 mandarin oranges and a cup of oatmeal.  Sounds healthy.  Like I'm eating clean.  Eating the right foods.  Except, I'm not.  And I have to come to grips with it.

The last year I've dealt with swollen lymph nodes, increased illnesses, hair falling out, intolerance to cold, sluggish/run down feeling.  I saw my doctor, an ENT, and an infectious disease specialist and no one had answers.  Until I started craving really odd things - like chalk.  On one more visit with my doctor and one more round of blood work - I have a severe zinc deficiency.  I've starved my body of essential protein and have made myself sick.  I was eating "negative calorie" foods.  In the back of my mind, I knew I wouldn't gain weight if I stuck to fruits and veggies.  This has been second nature for well over the last year and a half.
 
I ate a lot over the holidays.  I thought that I could be okay with some Pilates, some cardio, some light weight lifting.  But it's becoming obsessive.  I have been skipping lunch to go work out, rather than eat.  And not eating to replace the lost calories.  But the thought of food annoys me.  It's wasted time.  Time I could be getting "fit".  Working on burning fat, sculpting some decent abs, bikini ready arms, and that ever desirable inner thigh gap.

This is not how I want to die.  (I have an actual list of ways that I do not want to die.  Seriously. This is on it. Along with water, fire, wind, falling out of buildings)  I have this amazing life now.  A life that I didn't have a year ago.  A wonderful husband, wonderful kids, wonderful family, wonderful friends, wonderful home, wonderful job, wonderful life.  I'm happy every day.  But when I look at a plate of food, I mentally start taking notes about what's in it and is it "clean",  is it full of fat, am I going to gain weight.... Sometimes, I can eat and not think about it.  But lately, the last few weeks, that's drifting further from reality.   Even today, I was supposed to have a meeting with The Middle Son's school for additional IEP review.  And all I could think of was how I was going to fit my lunchtime work out in if I had to miss time at work.  I was relieved when it got rescheduled.  That meant I could go to the gym.  This.  Is. NOT.  Okay.

I hate making the people I love think that they are not enough to fix me.  I'm broken.  I know what it's like to look at my kiddo when he's having a meltdown and punching himself in the face and I'm so totally helpless.  I cannot quell that, only hold his hand back and try to stop him.  That's what this must be like for them.  Even though I am acutely aware of it, I am still doing it.  Because there's a reward.  Someone will tell me how good I look for being a 36 year old mother of 4.  They will ask what my secret is and how I do it.  And I can't bring myself to say that it's "anorexia".  I just bask in the glow of the results of my crazy train.

So, here is step 1.  Again.  I'm admitting I have a problem.  Again.