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

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.

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.

Freedom

When I was a little girl.. around 7 or so... my biological mother met a man who would change me.  I was not just your average straight "A" student.  In the 2nd grade I was promoted to 3rd.  I was under evaluation for the gifted programs.  I had a pink bedroom.  I loved to dress up and look pretty.  E.T. lived in my closet.  Riding bikes was my favorite pastime. I loved Little House on the Prairie.  My shoes always had to match my dress.  My hair was brushed every day.  I read my Bible every night.  My "parents" made me feel like the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world.  I'd had my share of rough patches but overall - I was the smart, pretty girl that everyone loved.  And I felt worthy.

This man came along and wooed my (bio) mother.  She hadn't been with anyone since my (bio) father left when I was 3.  She was putty in his hands.  Things moved rather quickly from there.  Dates quickly became an engagement.  The warning signs were there and my parents fought with my (bio) mom.  They noticed hickies on my neck.  Bite marks.  All of a sudden I wasn't an outgoing little girl anymore.  I stopped doing my homework.  I withdrew.  He liked to hit me a lot and call me names that I didn't understand.  But he liked to kiss me too.  I didn't understand those either. 

My (bio) mother stopped letting me see my parents due to these fights.  They fought for custody.  Instead it ended with visitation every other weekend.  Then my (bio) mom just stopped picking me up.  One day during the summer of 1986 I was outside playing with my friends.  I hadn't seen (bio) mom in a long time.  Felt like ages when you are that little.  I looked up and saw her smiling face.  And I ran to her with no shoes on.  Then she ran with me.  He was in a car around the corner waiting with his green teeth and his crooked smile that made my stomach turn.  I cried but it didn't matter.  He made it very clear what would happen to me if my "wetback" mouth didn't shut up.  I cried for hours anyway.  He tied me to a chair in the living room of my mom's apartment that night.  He beat me so badly that I stopped crying.  Just so it would end.  I don't know how long I was in that chair.  My mom came home later and got me out.

Lots of days were like this.  I was able to go home a few times.  There were lots of fights.  My parents - him - my (bio) mom - him - police..... It didn't matter.  Nothing saved me.  By this time I had a baby sister, Bean.  She was beautiful.  And squirmy.  And I didn't know what to do with her but mom would have to work.  So I took care of her.  Our parents would send us toys and he'd sell them.  They would call and he'd hang up.  They'd come to see me at school but I wasn't there anymore.  Angie was left in my arms a majority of the time.  Looking back I can't remember how I did it.  There are lots of memories there.  None of which I think I can share.  But I was smart enough to try to get help.  Unfortunately, my voice wasn't heard in time.  My sisters suffered.  I suffered.

Several years later he served time in prison for what he did.  A year.  Seems rather short for stealing the innocence of 3 little girls.  The damage was done.  I shut down.  I had nightmares where he was trying to rape me again.  If I had a boyfriend I'd have flashbacks and get confused as to who was kissing me.  Killing myself seemed like the only way out.  I tried.  My parents couldn't help.  He came to our house once.  He called often.  In response I'd cut my arms.  He stole my self confidence.  He robbed me of my self esteem, my self worth.  Even now - 25 years later- the damage is still at the surface.  I still feel it.  He got his karmic repercussions quite a bit over the last few years but nothing in comparison. 

Have you ever taken a narcotic pain killer - for a toothache or some such malady - and actually felt the pain leave your body?  You know, that instant that the pain you had is gone?  That's what I felt when I read his name in the obituary section of today's paper.  I'll never get back what was taken.  But I'll sleep better knowing I no longer share oxygen with him.  He will never lay eyes on my sisters, my (bio) mom, my kids - anything again.  I may put on a pretty dress, make a nice dinner and pour a glass of wine and toast to FREEDOM.

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.