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

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.  

Teaching Manners

While on a recent trip to the grocery store I discovered a product available in the Frozen Foods section - "Muffin Tops".  This sparked my sometimes prevalent Runningoffthemouth syndrome that I have been plagued with all my life.  Instantly, before I could control myself, the words just flew out of my mouth - "Your father must get these while his girlfriend is away at college to remind him of her."  My dear Middle Son (7) and Youngest Boy (4) are little sponges.  They will tell on anyone at anytime for anything.  Once, I forgot to strap Youngest Boy in his booster seat while coming home from the grocery store.  It was a 2 mile trip at best and nothing happened.  But everyone we know and several that we don't are privy to this information.  Because he doesn't have a mute button.  Telling him not to repeat those things is not an option as I do not teach them to be deceitful.  And if I'm going to teach them "personal responsibility" then I must, in turn, lead by example.  I threatened to eat his soul once and he told his pediatrician.  I must be accountable for my actions.

I dig myself deeper and deeper into a hole.  On Christmas Eve they must spend a wretched 8 days with their estranged father and his homewrecking teenaged girlfriend.  Though, we have a hearing on the 27th that may (let's pray) result in their immediate return home.  I've talked this up to be a phenomenal experience for them in spite of my sheer and utter terror.  But I'm still human.  I still have anger.  So I went on.  I provided a list of things that my children should not say to or about the Pop Tart (totally void of nutritional value and there's a reason they come in two packs).  I know, I know - I should be teaching respect and love and all that happy horseshit.  But let's get real - the bitch thinks it's funny that he left me pregnant.  I ain't Mother Theresa kids.  I have a Mexican temper.  And a big mouth.

The list consisted of the following:

1.  Do not ask her when she fought Godzilla.
2.  Do not point out that even at 9 months pregnant my behind was smaller than hers.
3.  Do not tell her that you can hear her arteries screaming.
4.  Do not offer her a breathmint.
5.  Don't mention that she may or may not turn you to stone with a single glance.
6.  Those unfortunate marks on her face are called pimples and pointing them out is rude.
7.  Don't ask her if she should be eating those particular pastries.
8.  Do not make beeping noises should she be walking backwards.
9.  Do not tell her that you don't speak that dialect of Whale.
10.  When she asks a question do not respond by barking.
11.  Do not throw water at her in hopes that she melts.
12.  Don't ask her what happened to her face.  It's called make up and some women need a lot of it.
13.  Don't tell her that she reminds you of something you read about in a Percy Jackson book.
14.  If she falls do not tell her that a little more of California just fell further into the ocean.
15.  Do not point out her resemblances to RuPaul.
16.  Also do not point out that manatees cannot live out of water.
17.  Don't suggest that she buy bigger pants.

So now that we have those bases covered I think we're safe, right?

It's Just Like Starting Over

Last Thanksgiving I spent with Ex Douchebag.  Boy was it a doozy.  I had received a call from his mistress' father informing me of his 18 year old daughter's affair with my husband just the day before.  I was still a little shaken up and hurt.  I had already known but hearing from the girls dad was just a little more than I was expecting.  But I spent the holiday with this gut feeling that it would be our last.  We conceived our daughter that night though.

Fast forward to a year later, 2010.  This was my first holiday feast prepared for on my own, without my husband.  Don't get me wrong - I had help if I wanted it.  My sister, my friends and the few slivers of family I have left all offered to help.  This was something that I just had to do myself.  It was empowering.  Little by little I have been taking back the control of my life.  Owning Thanksgiving was therapeutic.  I needed it for me.

After a struggle to get The Middle Son & The Youngest Boy to their dads (as in I struggled to get him to actually take them) I made a quick run to the store. After that I made it home to watch the parade and prepare the kitchen and the feast. The Oldest kept a watchful eye on a snoozing Mini-Me while I prepped the 22# bird we nicknamed "Evil Dr. Porkchop".  Naming the turkey has been a tradition of ours for years.  I feel that we should become acquainted prior to me shoving a hand up its carcass.  Sometimes we give him a back story too.  This year I made the mistake of purchasing an aluminum roasting pan from the Dollar Store.  A mistake that would prove to be near devastating later.  I plopped Evil Dr. Porkchop into the pan and gingerly placed his mass into the oven. As I slide the pan back onto the grate the cheap pan rips and I failed to notice until AFTER I started pouring in the water.  Well shit.  Water all over the inside of the oven.  Go me!  Here comes trip #2 to the store.  I purchased some oven roasting bags as a solution to the pan problem.  In my head I just figured I would throw the turkey in the bag and place it in the ripped pan.  It's not like the bag would explode or anything, right?  HA!

The Oldest and I watched his idol, Alton Brown, atop the turkey float dressed as a pilgrim.  It was fantastic.  I was a bit off schedule.  Normally, I would cook the turkey over night.  Unfortunately (or fortunately) I shut my alarm off at 1 a.m. and opted to wait til morning.  We did the veggie prep, made the deviled eggs and started working on the house cleaning as well.  I knock at the door revealed my biological mother (a paranoid schizophrenic) and her boyfriend, (a Romanian refugee) had arrived early to assist.  After several hours of prep and another trip to the grocery store it was time to poke Evil Dr. Porkchop.  I explained to BM's BF the joys and wonders of a roasting bag as he had never seen one before and he was intrigued.  The bag appeared to be full of juice and Evil Dr. Porkchop was smelling tasty!  The bag was so full that it was hanging over the side of the pan.  As I shut the oven door it happened.  Just then the bag touched the oven wall and melted.  The juices, containing butter, hit the heating element in the bottom of the oven and burst into flames.  I quickly turned off the oven and intercepted BM's BF carrying a large glass of water just before he tossed it onto the flames.  After several minutes the flames rose up thru the oven vent, out the door and screaming ensued.  Not mine mind you!  Finally the fire subdued and BM's BF & I managed to extract the turkey without incident.  To my amazement, damage was minimal and Evil Dr. Porkchop was done!  Imagine what would have happened had I done that in the middle of the night?

Honestly, I felt like I could overcome any obstacle in my way after that.  I went on to complete a meal for 12 people and dropped the laborious stuffing into the floor.  Ex Douchebag dropped the kids off at 6 and I looked at him for the first time with new eyes.  I didn't miss him. Or long for him to hold me again.  Instead, pity replaced love.  He looked worn, sad and pathetic.  I'm not sure how, after all I've been through, but I feel sorry for him.  I think the stress is taking it's toll on him.  And for once I don't feel responsible for causing it or fixing it.  So I sat down at the table, in my new dining room, by the fire, next to friends and family and didn't give him another thought.  I just kept thinking that I'm blessed beyond measure.  It's amazing what 365 days can bring.  Liberation, freedom and a new path full of anxiety and excitement. 

The moral of the story: Don't buy pans at the dollar store.  :-)

Til Death Do Us Part - or infidelity

I'm 32.  I have 4 children - 3 boys and a girl.  I've been with my husband for 11 years.  And 2 weeks ago - he sent me divorce papers.  Apparently, I'm not as fun as a teenager.  Grown up life proved to be too much.  He cheated, I cheated, then he cheated again and hasn't stopped yet.  He left December 11, 2009.  The boys and I have been left to deal with the ups and downs, cleaning up the messes and get on with life.  So this is me - getting on with my life.  Reluctantly.

My sons - The Oldest (14), The Middle Son (7) and The Youngest Boy (3) have been my reasons for carrying on and have provided solace when I didn't think it was possible.  The 4 of us have formed this little tribe - unbreakable and delicate at the same time.  In August 2010 we welcomed Mini-Me- my daughter- into the world.  So go- do the math.  Yep - he left 8 days after the "+" sign.  But hey - we're not the first ones to go through this and we surely aren't the last.  Together we have faced some interesting and frustrating obstacles.  I don't know where I'd be without them. 

My friends have been there for me at all hours of the night.  Helping me analyze every text, call, email, visit and communication over the last 10 or so months.  Up to now I'd never been the type to cry.  Let alone cry uncontrollably.  Definetly not the type to cry uncontrollably on people.  Oh and never in public.  Boy how things change.  Used to be a time where I was always right.  My gut was never, ever wrong.  It's been an adjustment!  Not only is my gut wrong but I've been more wrong than I have ever thought possible. 

Anyway - my family, friends, therapist and even soon-to-be ex husband always said I should write.  It's always been my dream.  I don't want to pen the next Angela's Ashes or anything, nor do I want fame & fortune (at least not until the divorce is final, haha) - I just want to get it out.  Sometimes it's funny.  Sometimes it's angry.  Sometimes it's torn, confused, hurt, tearful or astounded.  It's always something.  Maybe somewhere someone else will find this in the vast internet and get some inspiration.