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

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.   

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.

And I said, Goodbye to You.....

With every passing year, there is a brief time of reflection (about 3 days before NY and maybe 5 days after) on what transpired in those preceding months.  Then, we prepare to dive, head first, into a fresh, new calendar.  365 unwritten pages.  For me, this has been a pretty limit testing/rewarding year.  I'm looking forward, gratefully, to the next 8,760 hours.

2013 opened my eyes in so many ways.  There have been lots of superficial things that have made me think and made me smile or hurt my heart and made me cry (entirely more happiness over pain).  And I take with me into 2014 and beyond, the wisdom from those grins and sobs.  I'm also packing the enlightenment of anger.  I'm pretty sure I can title 2013 as "The Year I Was Really Pissed Off".  However, looking for the soft, gooey center of all that petulance was the clarity that followed.  I generally go out of my way to avoid being mad.  It took a long time to let go of the baggage of things that happened when I was little and I think I overcompensated.  I undervalued the benefits of this less than pleasant emotion.  It provides motivation to get a lot of things done.  It got me through the hardest parts of the year.  Thank you, Fury, I owe you one, but it's time to put you back into the holster.  I promise I won't let you get dusty.

Milestones were bittersweet.  The Oldest started driving lessons.  Very little actually scares me.  Except something happening to one of my children.  It's a Craven/Shelley/King/Lovecraft/Poe/Manson/Bieber compilation of thought.  My child operating a vehicle is terrifying.  There was an intermission, though.  For close to a month, he was unable to move much.  Not sure which incites more trepidation - car accidents or surgical procedures.  We spent about a week together in a small room in Cincinnati.  Just staring at each other.  His mole is gone.  But scars now reside in it's place.  And we learned so much about skin grafts.  And the courage inside of my amazing son.  He made the difficult choice to go through this painful surgery to avoid an uncertain future.  (This is my side note vent at Melissa Etheridge, an avid reader of my blog: FUCK YOU LADY.  It takes a lot of guts to take a preventative step to avoid cancer.  Sure, you were talking to Angelina Jolie.  But you were kicking dirt in the faces of those who make similar choices to control a potentially life threatening and volatile disease.  You made a different choice and it worked out, because you're still here.  Good for you, that doesn't make you Queen Shit of Cancer.)  His determination paid off.  "Benign" is my new favorite word.  Then the little shit went and became a senior in high school.  Not my little baby anymore.  2014 brings with it a graduation party and the big "18".

Soccer-mom-hood hit with a vengeance.  The Youngest Boy discovered sports and loves it.  I, of course, found a love for being a mom on the sideline.  Cheering, quashing my internal loudmouthed Bitch, learning how to work a double elimination tournament bracket.  Watching his fall team rock an undefeated season, bring home medals and trophies - made me really proud.  His commitment to teamwork is pretty awesome.  And, I didn't punch anyone!  He is also reading well above his grade level.  This pride comes with us.  Soccer can stay too.  (12 more days until indoor winter season starts)  It's inspiring Miss Mini-Me.  She packs a little backpack full of things to do during practices and games.  She roots her brothers team on and plays with him at home too.  There's a large net folded under my china closet, 2 small nets on the patio, a stockpile of cones in the living room, and this morning I tripped over his newest soccer ball.  This is a result of their friendship (even though I am preeeeeeety sure she slapped him a few times).

I gained a new respect for the teaching profession.  Teaching The Middle Son at home has been very taxing on the soul.  Saluting all the teachers out there, high!  I have to know my own limits, though.  The silver lining of this experience is that had it not happened, it would've taken a lot longer to get a diagnosis.  We needed this.  Next week, he will rejoin society and public school.  Fortunately, I'm only seconds away.  It's going to be interesting and exciting.  While I won't let him sink completely I'm also going to be letting him do a lot of his own swimming.  I won't be around forever and Autism isn't the end of the world.  He's high functioning and he's not going to adapt if I shield him.  Advocate, not shelter.  So I need to put the strength from the last year into my carry on luggage.

For me, the resolutions I've set for myself are cliche.  Eat better, take better care of myself, workout more, increase my volunteer hours, and write.  Usually, they are silly and easily attainable.  Though, I blew the "I won't say 'farfegnugen'" resolution of 2011 within the first 2 weeks.  I am going to throw in a "I won't operate a shopping cart faster than 2 mph" for 2014.  And maybe a "I won't flip my neighbor off" (not the ones immediately on both sides, more like the ones across the street and 2 doors down on the left and 3 down on the right).  I might do something reckless, too - trim my hair, wear pink (I hate pink), shoot a gun (I hate guns), beat ZombieU, and get arrested for Public Intox at a high school graduation.

I wish the best for everyone reading this.  While my follower list is quite small and consists of a handful of friends, this blog did cross the 4000 hit mark a few weeks ago and I got my first writer's paycheck.  The hit count means a lot to me.  It means that you're here on purpose.  So, thank you.    Go do something fun tonight and try not to end up in jail.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

A little over a year ago, I began to have some serious concerns about my, then, 9 year old son.  I butted heads with his teachers and eventually removed him from his conventional brick and mortar school.  He was not thriving in any way.  My gifted little boy, who could read just about anything you put in front of him, was failing every subject.  He couldn't make a friend to save his life.  He was as blunt as a 2 x 4 to the back of the head.  He was drowning and it was the only thing I could think of to help him.

Within months of attending an online school, his teacher made a very difficult phone call to me.  She was concerned that there was something much deeper going on.  She offered to help me get him on the right track and suggested we consult his physician.  His doctor is the most amazing woman, so easy to talk to.  She reminded me of a similar conversation that we'd had about 2 years ago.  He has issues with effective social skills.  She asked me to follow up with her if that didn't remedy itself.  At this point, she asked me to complete an assessment and return it to her.  His teacher filled one out also.  Rather than scheduling a follow up appointment, his doctor called me to refer us to the local Children's Hospital to help pinpoint what was going on.  She immediately dismissed ADD or ADHD.

A few weeks went by before I heard from the referral nurse.  And when I did, she proffered up a word that I wasn't anticipating: "Autism".  But, he can talk and function.  Isn't Autism where they are low functioning?  I've met a few Autistics here and there and The Middle Son is really nothing like them.  Not that he's "better" or anything.  Just not what *I* thought of when I thought of Autism.  She explained to me, very lightly, what "Asperger's Syndrome" is.  High functioning Autism.  She recommended we get to a therapist quickly.  The earlier the diagnosis, the better.  He's NINE.  How is this just now on the table?  He's worked with a therapist before, shouldn't this have been caught by now?  Surely, he is not Autistic.  I have to say, I was reeling.  Confused, scared, shocked, worried, speechless, curious.  I think I even laughed a little.  But, we got appointments scheduled.  Then we hung up.  15 minutes ago, life was totally different.

I began to research.  And research some more.  And then, there was some more.  The more I read, the more I cried.  Pretty sure that I sat here, for hours, with tears streaming down my face.  Not tears of sadness.  Relief.  Realizations.  MY KID ISN'T AN ASSHOLE!  (Every Aspie parent has that initial fear that their child is just a jerk, at some point in the diagnostic process)  Suddenly, 9 years all made perfect sense.  These signs have been there for so long.  But they got buried.  Divorce, moving, anxiety about schools, 2 more siblings.  We just kind of thought he was having adjustment issues.  Well, no shit.

He has a wonderful therapist.  She's fun, sharp as a tack, and relates to him.  She doesn't dilute his therapy.  Initially, we didn't mention the "A" word.  Then, he hacked Disney's gaming site.  Here he is, at 10, developing and creating video games.  Learning some programming code.  Taking to it like a duck to water.  But ask the kid to tie his shoes.  He can give you a detailed history of Godzilla.  When I say "detailed" I mean EVERYTHING. A few weeks ago, I filled out another set of forms.  If I had doubts about his diagnosis - I didn't after that.  28/30 spaces checked in the affirmative.  Absurdly high vocabulary.  Has anxiety walking down certain types of stairs.  Can't stand denim jeans.  Has no understanding whatsoever of the concept of other people's feelings.  There's no filter on what comes out of his mouth.  He can smell what neighbors 2 streets over are cooking.  Things taste very strong.  Sounds are really loud.  Lights can be very bright.  When that all gets to be too much - the punching ensues.  Not directed at me or anyone else.  Just himself.

So, just before Christmas, we got the official Welcome Kit to the world of Autism Spectrum Disorder.  What a difference a year can make.  All of a sudden, I want to make this place more understanding for him.  But there's a balance I haven't quite figured out yet.  He can't go through life thinking that he can just drift without consequence.  Armed with an official diagnosis, I placed him back in a public school.  We will see how it goes.

One day, my son was an average boy, on an average street, doing average things.  The next day, he's Autistic.  It knocks you back a few ticks. Thinking back to all the things you punished him for that were his condition breaking the surface.  This is probably where having a schizophrenic biological mother comes in handy.  She can't ever shut off her hallucinations, her eccentricities, or her symptoms.  She is no more responsible for her conversations with the Planter's Peanut Guy than I am.  That's something I learned a loooooooooooong time ago.  Maybe it was a way to prepare me for raising an Aspie.  I don't get offended anymore when he looks through me when I'm being emotional.  I'm a lot more patient when he needs a few extra minutes to make it down the steps.  He has taught me a lot about life in the last year.  Slightly scared/nervous/excited/proud to see where it goes from here.

Because hitting people is unacceptable

Our 9 year old, gifted son is having difficulty in school.  Last year he was being picked on relentlessly by other students.  This year, he has a personality conflict with a particular teacher after he rolled his eyes at a homework assignment.  I attended a meeting with his principal and teachers to discuss an incident where The Middle Boy was removed from class for telling the teacher that "[he'd] be able to see the board better if she moved her arm".  He lacks social skills almost entirely.  He has a very blunt, direct, broadsword way when it comes to communication.  (I have no idea where that comes from).  His educators agreed that they would have him meet with a Gifted Student counselor as this is a common trait among children with higher intelligence.  This is not an excuse for this comment.  But clearly, he has needs that surpass his understanding.  It's easy to forget that even though he has the intelligence of a teenager, he has the maturity level of a 9 year old.  The two parts of him did not develop at the same rate.  Throwing him out of the classroom without explaining what he did wrong when he clearly didn't understand the issue doesn't exactly teach him anything.  There was no connection made between cause and effect.  He followed instructions and left the class without argument.  The teacher informed me that she consulted the superintendent prior to meeting with me to make sure she was not in any trouble with the way she handled the situation. 

During my meeting the teacher told me "This may not be politically correct for me to say but my life would be so much easier if you withdrew him from this school."  I appreciate the jobs that teachers do.  They put up with so much and work so hard.  But the parent in me had to refrain from physical violence.  I nodded and smiled and participated in the conversation as a grown up should.  Then I came home, had some time to think, and wrote this letter to the teacher and principal: 

First, I want to thank you for your time and efforts over the last few months with our son.  Teachers don’t get nearly enough credit for the amazing jobs that they do.  After we met Tuesday morning, I came home, discussed the meeting with his father, and had time to reflect on the conversation.  We’ve spent several hours talking and I’d like to take this opportunity to share with you the thoughts and conclusions to which we came.  I apologize for the delay in sending this – our household has been suffering from an incredible cold. 

Since the beginning of the school year my husband and/or I have met, in person, 3 times.  We have had several phone calls as well.  One trend we noticed was the continued reference to the “eye roll” that occurred in the first few days of school, literally each visit and all but one call.  It is our belief that this incident has become a catalyst for the rift between teacher and student.  We feel that it has been taken as a personal slight that seems to be one which there is no recovery.  While we do not condone [The Middle Son] behavior in any way, shape, or form we also do not feel that this poor choice on his part should continue to be an issue two months later.  From that point on, the personality clash between you and [The Middle Son] has grown considerably.  We feel that this has amplified everything  [The Middle Son] has done from that point forward.  The old adage that “you never get a second chance to make a first impression” has a great deal of truth in it.  It also bars it’s adherents to a place where forgiveness is impossible.   Thus, teaching both parties nothing of interpersonal growth. 

You stated to me that [The Middle Son] is the only student that you do not have a connection with out of the entire class.  You also stated to me that your life would be easier if I withdrew [The Middle Son] from school.  These confessions weighed heavily on me, as a parent.  This situation promotes further social detachment.  Children are sponges, as you know.  They are intuitive, sensitive, keen observers.  When they witness, whether verbal or non verbal, an adult authority figure disconnect from something they have a tendency to follow suit.  [The Middle Son] has an already difficult time with making friends.  I have to wonder if your indirect/non verbal indifference to him is not being picked up on and harbored by the other students.  I’m not sure it’s really possible for him to be more emotionally isolated than he already is.  I fail to see how this is helping him develop social skills.  Being an outcast is not a skill one strives to accomplish.  No child, including [The Middle Son], wants to be disliked.  You mentioned that you had difficulty sleeping in anxiety over the meeting and can’t stand the thought of not being liked.  Well, that’s every moment of school for our son.  I won’t deny that he bears responsibility for that fact.  I will also reaffirm my belief he’s not cognizant of it.  This is not an atmosphere where learning can be fostered.  There are means to correct his rudeness.  There are not means to make you care.  There was much talk of his lack of empathy.  There was none expressed for him, either. 

We feel very adamantly that parents and teachers should be allies in pursuit of academic achievement.  When a teacher, a person we are to trust with our child’s life, expresses indifference for that child – well, to be honest – it does not provide motivation to continue that alliance.  It carries the same weight as stating that you do not care.  That is not acceptable.  He is not just part of your job.  He is a person.  I cannot imagine how that would motivate him in his studies or to be respectful, if he knew.  Something tells me, he already does. 

Our extended family and circle of friends include numerous teachers and administrators in and out of the district.  Of the people we spoke to about the meeting and its outcome, all were flabbergasted by this statement.  Never have I heard any of them say this in casual conversation about their students, let alone to a parent that they are supposed to work with on a regular basis.  Imagine if your spouse, child, parent, family member or friend told you that their life would be easier if you weren’t there.  The relationship between teacher and student is just as important to a child. 

I have several thousand clients at once.  Some have simple cases – cut & dry and finished in 9 months.  Some have time consuming, intricate plans that require detailed work that takes up to 5 years to complete.  Sometimes one person’s case can rearrange my entire day and night (including my family and home life).  I cannot imagine feeling or expressing indifference for any of them, especially to them.  It’s counterproductive, not to mention unprofessional.  In all fairness, maybe it was a simple case of miscommunication with unintended implications. If that’s so, then perhaps the same consideration should be given to a struggling 9 year old boy.  However, any doubts we had about our decision to pursue the [deleted for safety] have been extinguished. /end

 

I received an apology from the principal where she explained that the teacher was trying to tell me that she wanted [The Middle Son] to stay in this school.  She just chose the wrong words.  

yeah.  And I'm the Queen of England.  Either way, we have begun the process of enrolling him into an alternative educational program endorsed by the Ohio Association of Gifted Children.  Hopefully, this will put him on the path toward the greatness he is destined for and not one with tragic results.   

Happy Smotherer's Day

In my lifetime, I've had the "joys" of two mothers.  The one who birthed me and the one who raised me.  Both were in my life, both taught me about the world in their own ways, both were my mom.  I was adopted when I was 14 on May 14, 1992.  Not many kids can say that they signed for an consented to their own adoption!  Granted, I was adopted by my maternal grandparents so it wasn't much of a stretch.  I won't get into all the details here because, someday, I'll want you to buy the book.  LOL

Anyway - tomorrow is Mother's Day and there's always a moment of sadness in my heart as my "Mom" is an angel now.  You don't realize in times of anger that someday the woman you are fighting with, yelling at, who is grounding you, telling you not to wear that lipstick, advising you not to shave your head, screaming at you to not date that guy, who is snooping through your room, reading your notes, demanding to know who you are with and where you are at all times, who refuses to buy you mini skirts and hooker heels.... you just don't see that someday, somewhere down the road - she will be a ghost and a gravestone.  And you will bargain, in your mind or with her or with God, for one more fight, one more argument, one more second.  You'll want those times back with every fiber of your being.  So if you still have your "Smother" - hug her tightly, call her, remind her that you love her because sometimes you are a complete asshole and she will be the only one that still loves you anyway.  This is my 10th Mother's Day since she has been gone.  Only now - as I'm raising 4 kids - am I seeing the value of her lessons. 

Once, my cousin, Chris, my friend Kristye, and I were sentenced to an afternoon of cleaning for the millionth time.  Now, my "mom" collected antique furniture and had it in every room of the house.  This was around 84 or 85, so if it was antique then, you can imagine what it would be now.  (Some of it still resides in my home to this day)  Well, she had this Berkey & Gay bedroom suite consisting of a mirrored chest of drawers, some storage thing that sat at the end of her four poster queen sized bed, in walnut.  Remembering it now - it was gorgeous.  "Was" is the key word here.  Words don't do these pieces justice.  This particular summer day we were doing time in the bowels of Tidying HELL.  Of course, we wanted to be thorough.  We were given the task of straightening the upstairs bedrooms while she took care of the downstairs.

Once we completed picking up toys, dirty clothes and various floor clutter we moved on to her room.  We found her supply of cleansing agents including, but not limited to, Ajax powder, Brillo pads, a scrub brush, and what's cleaning if you don't use the toothbrushes of everyone in the household?  You know, for fine details.  We all three entered her room and went straight to work.  We scrubbed and scoured for probably an hour or so.  Chris, liberally spreading Ajax from one end of the room to the other. (Hey, it turned a pretty blue when it was wet!  It was a fascinating substance to our young minds.)  Kristye was armed with a scrub brush.  In my hot little hand, I possessed a Brillo pad in all of it's steel wool glory.  We took to that bedroom suite like a well oiled cleaning machine.  We felt so grown up and important.  I distinctly remember saying how proud she was going to be when she sees how clean we got her furniture.  So you can imagine our confusion when she entered the room to put away the linens and started screaming.  There was a frenzy of sobbing, screaming, flailing arms, painful swats to our behinds, furious words of anger and groundings until the end of time.  Kristye was banished to her home.  Chris and I were sent to opposite ends of the house.  And when I say "sent" I mean she dragged us, beating our asses with every step.  Suddenly, this 60 year old woman grew 5 more arms and Herculean strength.  It was like she was the Incredible Hulk himself.

We weren't permitted out of our respective rooms for the rest of the night - an eternity when you're young.  We couldn't understand why we were being punished for cleaning.  After all, we were just doing what we were told!  Chris and I whispered under the cracks of our closed doors attempting to determine our fatal error.  The next day, through giant tears, she explained what we did wrong.  She told us that she still loved us.  She proceeded to make us a tray of cut fruits and her famous fruit dip.  I didn't think those ups and downs would vanish.  In the coming years I'd grow to hate her and love her again, despise her and cherish her and miss her in overwhelming ways.  She'd smother me, ask too many questions, make too many suggestions, give me unsolicited advice that I'd just rebel against, and love me unconditionally and forever.  

In 2001, she was granted her wings on a hot August day in her bed.  From there on out our family changed.  She was our glue and for a long while we fell apart without her.  But the fortitude she instilled in us came alive again and, for the most part, brought us all back together. (Once, I picked up the phone, dialed her number as I had something really important to tell her.  I got so far as the disconnected number chime and recording before I remembered she was gone.) I get signs from her and am comforted with them. She comes to me in vivid dreams where she has a healthy & nourished look to her, though she rarely says a word.  Most recently she gave me an indisputable sign that would make me sound like a lunatic if I explained it.  She finds ways to "mother" me from her new home in Heaven.  Only now have I begun to savor those signs rather than mourn them.  Going on 11 years since her passing and I'm starting to find peace with it.   She's still with me each and every single day.  Sometimes, my daughter will look up at me and flash me a face and I could swear it was "mom". I treasure that and while part of my heart aches that she isn't sitting at this table with me, smoking like a chimney, criticizing some choice I've made, I know she lives on.

What was the point of this rambling blog?  Other than sharing a story that didn't paint her in the best light?  Well, the point is - go call your mom.  Even if she's a bitch.  Call her.  She's only on loan to you. We moms put up with a lot.  We make a lot of sacrifices to get you where you are now.  We got up and made you breakfast when we were tired.  We taught you how to pee and poop in the toilet.  We kissed your hurties.  We wanted to fight the world when someone hurt you.  We'd lay our lives down without question for our kids.  We're humans doing the jobs of super heroes.  Remind us that you notice.  On Monday, you can go back to leaving skidmarked undies on the floor and asking for money we don't have.  Give your momma one day, especially when she's given you all of hers.  :-) 

I Can Get You A Thumb By 3 o'clock. With Polish.

Part of accepting maturity is delaying gratification.  Tuesday night, I let me "T" take the wheel (that's a United States of Tara reference).  I had some extra money burning a hole in my pocket.  And I saw that Bath and Body Works was having a sale on hand soap and body wash.  Sure, I had hand soap.  But it wasn't some overpriced, over scented, migraine inducing, obnoxious aroma.  It was some plain ole Dial.  Ok - it was Cherry Blossom.  But it didn't come out in a foam.  I just (almost) finished decorating one of my bathrooms and I wanted it to look perfect.  Only B&BW soaps are going to be the perfect accessory. Sure, I have body wash too.  But, again, it's falls into the same category as the Dial.

So at 7:45 p.m. Mini-Me woke up from her nap and I decided to just run up really quick.  I packed little Q up and headed out the door.  We got to the store about 10 minutes later.  We entered and my baby girl was in awe.  This whole "girl" thing is still a wonder to me.  I know she's 1 1/2 but it is still a very large adjustment from the 3 boys.  I have a new found appreciation for girly things.  Seeing her little face light up when she sees something feminine!  Don't get me wrong, she has an incredible fondness for the boys' things too.  But she loves purses and "lip gloss" (read: an empty tube of  Chap Stick).  So as we are perusing the shelves and bins, we come across this ADORABLE little compact.  It was a small, bright yellow smiley face with a big red bow on it's head with a red rhinestone in the center of the bow that slid open and closed.  A toothy smile drew across her face, her legs kicked in excitement.  She giggled when she saw the pretty baby in the mirror. I melted.  Of course, it was hers.  She could put it in her little purse!  Maybe it was a combination of the toxic levels of perfumed potions mixed with the bright, flashy packaging and some spritz girl chasing me around with some "Island" scent - I didn't think. 

We finalized our purchase and the compact didn't leave her grasp the whole ride home.  As soon as we came in - She showed her prize off to her brothers and placed it into her purse.  She would pull it out every so often and smile at the baby smiling at her.  Wednesday morning, I told my Heterosexual Life Partner about it.  We gushed over the cuteness of a tiny girl holding a tiny mirror in her tiny hand.  The compact didn't get much thought until later.

Fast Forward to 3:00 p.m.  I'm clacking away at the keyboard, engulfed in work, listening to the kids play happily through the house.  Mini-Me traveled back to her brothers' room, which she does often.  Usually to snatch some "off limit" toy or to make The Youngest Boy cry.  Soon, she started fussing.  It was not a full fledged cry.  More like - bitching.  It sounded like she was trying to get something that was stuck and she was annoyed.  I got up to investigate.  I surely was not expecting the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  There she was, sitting on the bed, covered in blood.  Mainly because she was shaking her hand like she was trying to get a piece of tape off of her hand.  I didn't bother trying to figure out what caused it.  I grabbed her and ran to the bathroom.  I ordered all kids out of the bedroom until we could determine what happened.

Once in the bathroom, I had to clean her in order to find the origin of the bleeding.  The Oldest went to investigate the cause.  The Middle Son came in with a broken antenna from a CD player.  But that didn't seem likely.  I found the deep gash on the tip of Mini-Me's thumb.  She had fileted the tip.  And still not crying.  I put pressure on it for roughly 15 minutes.  The one thing that I've learned from 13 years in the pro wrestling business and 15 years raising sons - it's First Aid.  I've also amassed a very thorough First Aid kit that includes suture removers and other such tools (it helps that I have a sister who works in a medical office and that Michael used to).  The Oldest comes into the bathroom holding a bloody, broken compact.  Enough guilt set to rival Catholicism.  There weren't enough Hail Mary's to absolve me.  Why on Earth didn't I think about this?  Normally, I can look at an object and come up with at least 15 ways one of the kids can inflict injury on another of the kids using it.  I determined that I could not control the bleed.  I wrapped it in gauze and medical tape - tightly - hoping to stop the bleed.  Then I put a clean sock over it and then her shirt so that she couldn't pull it off on the way to the hospital. 

You know that you're a borderline terrible mother when you have an ER routine.  Each kid knows what to do, who to call and how to prepare.  The Oldest loaded up Mini-Me's diaper bag and made the call to grandma, The Middle Son started cleaning the blood trail while packing his things to take to Grandma's and The Youngest Son- well, he was just grateful that it wasn't him this time as he told Mini-Me of the amenities of Children's Medical Center as we piled into the car.  She just smiled and then fell asleep on the way.  Fortunately, Grandma lives seconds from the hospital.

Michael met us inside as we greeted the same P.A. that handled The Youngest Son's chin and broken jaw as well as his recent "tooth thru the cheek" just weeks ago.  First, he was going to stitch but once he got her cleaned up (and lidocained) he decided to cut the flap of skin and apply pressure.  Unfortunately, there was no stopping the bleeding.  He ordered a clotting agent which finally worked after 3 hours.  Not a whimper out of my baby!  The doctor looked at us and said "Her brothers are in trouble!  This is one tough little girl!"

She's going to have a scar.  And will NEVER, NEVER own another compact again.  Ever.  Even when she's like 40.  Nope.  No more.  Seriously - What the elf was I thinking?  Now, just feeling very blessed that she is okay and it was not nearly as bad as it could have been.

A Little Something for the Holidays

I've been quiet, I know - Uncharacteristic of me.  Sorry, I discovered Pinterest and am now an addict.  Seems like I should get on a 12 Step Program but I'd rather create one with ribbons, bows, recycled newspapers and strategically placed snark.

I wrote this almost exactly 3 years ago and it was so funny that I had to share it again.

Sweet Tooth Saves Family of 4

Article by Anastasia Beaverhousen
Somewhere In, Ohio - A late night craving for a Peanut Butter Blossom cookie is being heralded as the hero in an early morning fire in a local duplex. Ms. Ever After mother of 3 boys, laid down on her couch to catch up on some television when she started to feel sleepy.  Knowing that she had several baskets of wet clothes that needed to dry she set her cell phone alarm to wake her at 3:15 a.m.  At approximately 2:45 a.m. Ms. Ever After decided to succumb to her sweet tooth  in lieu of taking a nap.

"I sat down and started to doze off, ya know, and then I wanted a cookie," stated Ms. Ever After.  "I got up and went to the pantry, grabbed the bag of cookies - you know, my sons and I made these cookies on Sunday and they are so good - and went back to watch Top Chef.  I'm rooting for Hosea and he won the challenge!  I've picked all the recent winners of reality shows - Project Runway and Bob on Survivor is my favorite."  That's when she states she heard something strange coming from the wall.  "That's when I heard something strange coming from the wall.  It sounded like buzzing.  You know, like on that Powder movie when he made that Jacob's Ladder flip the (explicative deleted) out!  And I thought 'What the (explicative deleted) was what?' and then I saw black smoke and I was like 'whoa'."  This is the moment where, according to the fire chief, quick thinking was the most important.

"I jumped up off the couch and check the tree lights and they were okay" she explained, "and then I realized it was coming from under the entertainment center."  It was at this point where Ms. Ever After ran to her pantry and removed the fire extinguisher that she had purchased for her estranged husband as a gag gift following an April fire in a wrestling ring.  "I don't think I even had time to read the instructions.  I just followed my instinct and sprayed."  Unfortunately, her efforts to snuff the fire would go on in vain.  As the room started to fill with smoke and fire extinguisher spray it became more and more difficult to breathe.  "My youngest boy, he's 2 you know, was asleep on the couch less that 4 feet away.  When I couldn't get the fire to stay out I grabbed him and ran to the phone."  Her two other children were asleep in bedrooms upstairs.

"I called Mike to come over since, you know, the water pump on my car is out and I had no heat and he could take the kids with him if he needed to.  Since all the holiday presents were in the garage I couldn't put the kids in there."  She then called 9-1-1 and rushed to get her children outside to safety.  A local police officer was able to halt the flow of electricity to the fire which immediately put the fire out.  Fire Department crews responded quickly and were able to determine the cause of the fire as an overloaded extension cord.  "Hell, I didn't know that there was an extension cord even back there, let alone with piggybacked adapters in it."  Not a mistake that this family will make again.

When interviewed, the fire chief explained that this is the time of year for Christmas lights to cause fires and they fully expected it to be the lights when they came in.  Had Ms. Ever After fallen asleep the results would have been disastrous.  By the time the smoke would have reached the smoke detector in the hall, it could have been too late.  An hour and a half later the family was able to safely return to their home.  "I'm so glad that I paid up my Renter's Insurance.  I'm gonna be rich!!!  This is like winning the lotto, like them guys in Piqua just did.  Only mine was a fire and not worth $207,000,000.00."  Total estimated damage came to roughly $100.  "Now maybe I can get me some new carpet from my landlord.  That'd be awesome!  Shoo Wee am I glad that I wanted that cookie!"

Everyone was able to make it out of the house safely and no one was injured. Ms. Ever After probably should have been treated for smoke inhalation but instead smoked a cigarette.  The most difficult situation that this family has to handle is cleaning up all of the soot and powder.  When we inquired about her plans for clean up Ms. Ever After had this to say "Damn, I ain't ever gonna git that (explicative deleted) out of my (explicative deleted) carpet, clothes, hair and mouth.  This (explicative deleted) sucks!"

Get The Ladder D-Von!

I've done some incredibly stupid things in my life.  Once, when I was 5 or so I decided that I was going to make my 'rents laugh so hard that they'd have no choice but to commission a parade in my honor.  Ever watched Dumb & Dumber?  There's this scene where Lloyd (Jim Carrey) imagines that he shows up to Mary Swanson's house with her missing briefcase and in celebration & thanks her family invites him in for tea and strumpets.  They are all sitting by the fireplace in oversized sweaters, cozy & warm, watching Lloyd do incredibly funny things with a lighter and a fart.  They all love him.  Yeah - that's kinda how I thought this would be.  My aunt Joyce was in from Tennessee.  My mum didn't get to see her often.  So they were all sitting around the fire in the living room, looking at old photographs and talking about the good ole days.  I was in the dining room rummaging through my mum's sewing box that was left on the table.  Looking through her things was one of my favorite pastimes.  In my adventure (In my head it was an archaeological dig) I came across this lone button.  It was safely housed in a tiny, ziploc baggie.  I opened the bag and took the small, red button out and the cogs started turning in my head.  How can I use this little treasure to insight riotous laughter into the family in the next room?  Ah - With my NOSE!  The thought was that I can take this button, place it in the opening of my nostril, cover the other nostril and blow that button out so hard that it goes flying across the room.  They will love me.  The flaw in this glorious plan was that I breathed in really hard so that I could exhale really hard.  Can you guess where the button went? 

There was no laughter.  Only fear, panic, some words inappropriate for a young child's ears and a disbursement of the crowd.  I was scooped up into my mum's arms and placed in the car.  My dad put on his jacket and got his keys.  Off we went to the Emergency Room.  Some time later I was prepped for surgery.  The red button had made it's way into my sinus cavity and could not be reached with tweezers.  We departed the hospital just in time for my Aunt to fly back to Tennessee.  She died about 6 months later.  I decided that I wouldn't try that again any time soon.  I went on to commit some other interesting acts of stupidity - Tweezers into the electrical outlet no less than two times, feeding my friend real mud pies, washing my 'rents antique, wooden bedroom suite with Ajax, dropping my newborn sister on her ginormous head....  The list could go on!

A few years ago, Ex Douchebag & I decided to resurrect a notoriously violent wrestling promotion.  He has an affinity for certain brands of hardcore wrestling - namely tables, ladders & chairs (TLC Matches).  I've often feared for his life in the hundreds upon hundreds of matches I witnessed.  Only once have I ever walked out of a show  He was climbing a ladder when it started to sway and subsequently fell over.  He got tangled in the ropes and I couldn't tell you what happened after that.  I left.  He went on to participate in quite a few more of these nauseating matches that terrified me to the core.    The day of the show he purchased an ugly, aluminum, yellow, 6ft ladder.  I watched helplessly as he climbed to the top and our friend, knocked him off.  Repeatedly.  This ladder bent and folded and opened and closed.... Generally, you don't want to re-use those ladders after they take that type of abuse.  When Ex Douchebag & I split up and I moved out of our home I left many of his things behind, mostly his old weapons - a table, a folding chair, trashcans.  He was supposed to go pick those things up.   But for some reason I couldn't leave that hideous ladder behind.  Not sure why, it's not like I can use the derned thing.  I have zero intentions of ever using a ladder for anything at any time.  If I can't stand on a chair then I don't need it.

Well - I ate my words today.  This morning was going so well.  I got up on time, got the kids dressed and ready, got The Middle Son to an appointment on time (a first!) and was generally in an incredible mood.  Pulled into the driveway, unloaded The Middle Son & The Youngest Boy and proceeded to rouse a slumbering Mini-Me.  The boys sat on the chairs on the front porch to wait.  I decided to just give them my keys so they could get out of the heat.  As a Public Service Announcement - I can't throw.  Unless I'm REALLY angry.  Throwing like a girl is an understatement.  With my left hand I went to toss The Middle Son my house/car keys.  And as if on purpose - my keys sailed through the blue sky right smack dab onto my roof and trailed down into the gutter.

You've got to be kidding me.  Really?  Landing in the bushes I can understand and even expect.  Hell - landing 823 feet from the intended target would normally be the result.  Not today.  Today they land on the roof.  I can't decide to laugh or cry.  So I laughed.  And then reality started to creep it's way up my spine.  Oh no.  How am I going to get them down?  There's no chair tall enough to reach my roof.  I am a towering 5'1".  This cannot be really happening, right?  Alan Funt is about to pop out any second and point out the multiple hidden cameras and explain how they used a superpowered magnet to set me up.... How'd they know I always keep a spare house key on my person at all times?

My only option is to dig that unreliable ladder out of the garage and retrieve my keys from what I am sure is a slimy, filthy gutter.  I'm envisioning worms, maggots and the full menu from Fear Factor in there.  After I instructed The Oldest to mail my updated life insurance policy which happened to be sitting on the computer desk in the event that I fell - I headed to the garage.  Bravely I got the ladder to the front of the house.  I can see where it's been bent and damaged from the last time it was used.  Joe Rogan is somewhere behind me telling me not to throw up.  Quickly I climb one rung at a time until I reach the point of no return.  I feel around and cannot locate my keys.  I have to take another step.  If I fall it's really going to hurt.  I spy my Wonder Woman keychain, grab her feet and pull her towards me.  Shockingly, it's clean in there!  But I'm not going to risk standing there examining any more of it!  Got down and away without injury or incident.

I won't be throwing my keys again though.  Ever.

Could you Google the number for Poison Control?

As a mother of 3 boys you expect to have to call Poison Control center at least once.  Me?  Well - my first experience with the1-800-222-1222 was in 1998 when my, then 2 year old, son decided to SUPER GLUE HIS MOUTH SHUT.  Normally this wouldn't be a complaint.  I was just concerned that he may have to have his stomach pumped or need some kind of IV Fluids.  (Cut me a break, I was 20).  For your future reference, Super Glue is non-toxic.  It takes hours to get hardened super glue out of the teeth of a 2 year old boy, you know, in case it comes up on Jeopardy.

Yesterday started like many do.  Mini-Me & I rolled reluctantly out of my smarshmellow soft bed and moseyed down the hall to the living room.  Her diaper was excessively full so I took it off and sat her bare behinded onto the floor.  Youngest Boy then asked for some breakfast as he and Middle Son were already up and at em viciously fighting over Wii privileges.  I proceeded to make a pot of coffee, Youngest Boy's breakfast and sent a particularly snide email to my ex (who went from being a doll to being a complete and total jackhole in a matter of minutes - we will never speak again) all of which took about, I dunno, 12 minutes or less.  Mini-Me crawls over to find me and I start to smell the smell of something really smelly.  She has pooed a trail from the television to my desk.  Roughly 8 feet of my living room is a giant skid mark of 10 month old infant droppings.  Greeeeeat.  I pick her up, grab a towel, half-assedly wipe up the ooze and make my way to the bathroom.  I inform the boys not to answer the door or the phone as I will be showering with the Mini Me since I am now also covered in yuck.

10 minutes later we are squeaky clean!  Youngest Boy and Middle Son are continuing their brutal video game argument in their bedroom.  I place Mini-Me in their room with them so that I can now mop my living room.  Again, I am praising God for hardwood floors!  20 minutes later I have completed the mopping.  I think that now I will indulge in that pot of coffee.  The night before was so incredibly hard.  I smoked a cigarette for the first time since December 2, 2009 and got my drunk on.  (Yes, what he did was that bad.  If it's possible for a shattered heart to break even more it's been accomplished in my rib cage)  I needed to just brush the weekend off and add it to the list of things I've survived in my lifetime.  No sooner do I get the fat free french vanilla creamer poured when I hear Middle Son skipping down the hall to tell me that Mini-Me has gotten into the paint.

Before Ex Douchebag's incredibly dastardly misdeeds occurred I was painting my 34 square foot bathroom "Red Geranium".  I'm going to paint the trim black, add some brushed nickel fixtures, lay some black & white checked flooring, decorative light switch covers and hang my vintage concert posters - Janis, The Doors, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and Nirvana with my vinyl copies of Men Without Hats, Heart and The Village People.  Music is the theme.  Red seemed fitting.  I didn't realize it was going to take 804 coats of this paint to cover the Pepto Pink that was previously on the walls.  So this process has taken no less than 4 days and I'm still not even close to done.

I race down the hall to find my beautiful little girl happily splashing around in blood red paint that is quickly flowing from the overturned can.  Apparently I hadn't sealed the lid completely and someone left the bathroom door open.  In the 8 seconds it takes her to get from the boys' room to the bathroom doorway she'd managed to pull over the container.  (Yes, nominate me for Mother of the Year!)  Immediately I pick her up and call for The Oldest to help.  I'm not sure which to do first.  Toss her into the tub or stop the river of paint from taking over the hardwood floor hallway.  Ultimately, it was neither.  I asked The Oldest to get his camera.  After he took the picture I put her into the tub - diaper & all and start hosing her off.  That's when I realize there is a small amount of paint on her mouth.  The Oldest comes into the bathroom to keep an eye on Mini - Me while I am scooping up handfuls of paint and pouring them back into the can.  Mini-Me is screaming now and paint is seeping into the tiles, under the transition strip, beneath the trim and into the grains of the wood.  The Oldest extracts a once again sparkling clean baby girl from the tub and whisks her off to the living room so that I can begin scrubbing.

"Hey [Oldest]" I call from my Cinderella position on the bathroom floor.  He says, in a most annoyed voice - "Yes mother".  "Could you Google the number for Poison Control?".  There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing red paint from the floor dialing Poison Control.  I look like Lizzie Bordon (had she really axed her parents).  I'm still not even fully dried from my shower of 30 minutes ago.  Mark, the RN on the other end of the phone assures me that Mini-Mewill be just fine.  She may toss her cookies but she does not need a trip to the ER.  I'm relieved.  And I need a clone.  Or 2.  Or 4 - 1 to follow around each kid.

Hey Kids! Check out this mushroom!

Yesterday I celebrated 15 years of motherhood.  Do I get a badge or like a free meal or something?  At least a card for my wallet or a discount on Tylenol?

I started the day by napping on the couch with my snuggly 8 month old daughter that I was woken from by a particularly insane nightmare.  A pink & black tarantula with razor legs that sliced my cats face and then gave birth to some really UGLY kittens was in my kitchen.  For clarity - the tarantula did the birthing, not my cat.  Cleaning my 8 & 4 year old sons bedroom then followed.  I was putting off mowing as looooooooooong as possible.

My procrastination was for good reason.  Or reasons in this case.  I've only mowed a lawn like twice in all my 33 years.  My yard now is quite large.  Most of my neighbors all have riding mowers.  Last year I was pregnant so I got a pass.  I hired some guy who tried very hard to soak me of money.  My old yard was maybe 50-60 feet.  It shouldn't cost me $100 every 2 weeks to have it mowed.  ANYWAY.......... I digress.  The mower hasn't been started in ages.  I can't get it started.  I'm just not very mechanical like that.  I've since determined that it's broken.  It involves duct tape.  LOL.  (Did someone hear Jeff Foxworthy?)  WOOHOO.  My sister offered to let me borrow hers.  The fun begins.

Getting the mower into my minivan - Task #1.  My sister lives on a steep hill.  Getting the mower OUT of the garage was the easy part.  It sailed quite quickly down the hill and almost into the street.  (sshhhhh!)  I open the back door and move some seats forward, hop in it and attempt to pull it into the van.  Uh, notsomuch.  Then I got out and picked it up trying to not touch blades.  I tried to push it.  That didn't work either.  I can feel eyes on me now.  The neighbors are staring.  Everyone is looking at me.  Watching.  Laughing.  Finally, I got it in!  I got home and proceeded to try to gently get the derned thing out of the van.  I dropped it.  (sssssshhhhhh!)  I've never felt so "on the spot" before.  Everyone is outside.  There's a party going on across the street.  Now there are more people watching than I want.  I really don't want anyone to watch.  I feel stupid.  But alas, I must mow!  I checked the gas - full.  I primered - 3 times per the instructions!.  I hold the stupid handle...... and PULL.  Nothing happens.  And again with the pulling.  The mower mocks me.  And again.  Now people are looking again.  And pointing.  And I can hear their whispering.  I move to the garage so that I am no longer a spectacle.  And it still won't start.  I text my sister - "How do you start this thing?  There wasn't a key!"  (I was kidding about the "key" part) She calls from Amish Country.  Walks me thru - then The Oldest joins the party.  Together we started the mower!

My one neighbor is TERRIFIED that I am going to hurt his car.  Dude - it's a Dodge.  Not a Porsche.  Get over yourself.  We live in suburbia.  Seriously, I'm not going to damage your sweet ride.  He moved his car.  Whatever dude.  Anyway... So I start mowing.  Seems easy enough.  I really wish people would STOP watching me.  I feel like I'm a Macy's float.  It really feels like I should be waving to those around me.  I need a mowing Tiara.  The mower stalls and I'm struggling to get it started again.  Here come some neighborhood children to ask me questions.  I just want them to shut up and go away.  I don't want them to draw attention to the fact that I have NO flippin clue what I'm doing.  So I play it off as though I have to pee so I can go investigate the source of the stall out without an audience.  And I'm back in business!

  Once I finished the front lawn I was ready to move to the back.  At least there the judging eyes of neighbors and passersby would be gone.  This is where it gets tough.  I'm mowing dandelions.  The clippings come out of a side chute right into a gust of wind and all over me.  They are wet which adds to the experience.  I now know why mowing should be done in pants.  I ran over a patch of mushrooms and had the same outcome.  I feel so gross right now.  As I mow the parameter of my backyard I am noticing little things about it that I didn't see before.  A rut here, a strange patch of grass there....  When I come across this large, whitish flattened mushy thing that was bright orange on the inside.  It's the strangest looking mushroom I've ever seen!  I make a mental note to show the kids.

I finish and turn around - I feel all accomplished and proud.   It feels great!  I did it.  Oh and I purposely didn't mow the side lawn that I share with my neighbors driveway out of spite (and the mower stalled again).  Then I remembered.  "Hey kids!  Check out this mushroom!!!!"  As I approached the mushroom I was so excited to see the looks on their faces.  I made it to the spot in the yard and just as I started to call for the kids a second time I nudged it with my foot.  A wave of the realization of stupidity came over me. It was a moldy orange one of the kids left out in the yard last week. 

Let's keep this between us.

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.  :-)

Light My Fire

It's 9 pm on a Saturday night.  Here I am, nursing my 3 month old daughter while typing this blog.  My youngest son is perched on the back of a couch watching Goosebumps.  My middle son is in his room playing on his Playstation and my oldest is on his Nintendo.  We're all "plugged in" so to speak.  This is the first time I've sat here just relaxing. 

Less than a month ago I made a decision to move.  Some say that's pretty crazy.  Our landlord refused to fix my dishwasher that had caught on fire.  So that day I checked the paper and found the only listing for a house for rent.  It was in my price range and sounded good.  The next day I called and scheduled a visit.  We took 5 steps in and I was ready to hand over a check.  Immediately, I fell in love with a house.  I filled out the application and went home and prayed with every fiber of my being.  If you know me, you know how crazy that sounds.  And within hours we got the call.  The house was ours.  The next day I handed him over a check.  Here I sit, not even a month later, in my new living room.  And there are no ghost stories.  Only blank sheets of paper for us to fill. 

Packing, working, taking care of 4 kids and celebrating my youngest sons birthday was challenging, to say the least.  I had help with the actual moving itself but as far as packing and unpacking- I've had very little.  Each box made me stronger.  Each step was an inch closer to my dreams.  With every roadblock I got smarter.  Even though we've only lived here for 16 days I feel like I'm home. I feel like I have to keep conquering the unconquerable.  Just to prove to myself that I can do it.  I found myself again.  Last year I almost lost myself.  It's rough to admit that I was close to ending my own life.  So many things presented themselves in just such a way to respark my inner light.  For that I am so truly grateful.  You have a choice - either let the flame consume you or let the fire propel you.

Motherhood - Only The Strong Survive

I wrote this quite a while ago..........


(Here I go again.  For the 4th time)
Here are a few things I want to say about Motherhood.


1.  I do not want to be urinated, defecated, snotted, vomitted, spit or farted on.  It's a thing I have about not wanting DISGUSTING touching me.  So why can't they all aim the other way?


2.  Sleep.  Sleep is meant to be done in consecutive hours and until you are rested.  I would like to engage in this activity.  I sleep in 1.5 hour increments.  Sleep is imperative to my functionability, ability to get through the day, and overall mood and demeanor.  Want me to be nicer?  Let me sleep.  For at least 5 hours.  Please?  Also, pee or vomit in your own bed.  Why?  Because it is easier to change your sheets.  Toddler bed/crib mattress vs. Queen sized bed with memory foam mattress pad at 3 am?  I'll pick the little ones please.


3.  I don't want to use the toilet to an audience.  When I pee - picture it - I have to pee, wipe while keeping the tp away from the baby then stand up, flush and pull my pants up all simultaneously then quickly land a foot on top of the toilet to keep baby hands out of the pot.  Also, wait to ask me life's important questions until I am out of the bathroom.  Don't sit outside of the door asking the following:  What am I doing, when am I going to be done, can I change the channel, can you watch a movie, can you have a snack, where the remote is, where your shoes are, or tell me that you have to pee.  We have 2 bathrooms - utilize that!


4.  Food.  Your food belongs in your mouth.  Where food does NOT belong:  In your brothers hair, on the floor, in the carpet, in the bathroom, in the basket of clean laundry, in the printer, on the computer, on the tv, behind or underneath the furniture, in or on the couch cushions, in your bedroom, on the stairs or in the hallway.  Here are a list of things that are not food products for your eating pleasure:  Change, band aids, baby wipes, pens, pencils, markers, my contact case, my glasses, eye drops, anything in my make-up bag, toilet paper, anything that you have in your toy box and cat food. 


5.  I am not a mind read, code talker, translator or Steven Hawking.  I cannot understand what you are saying mid squelch.  Take 5 then tell me what atrocity your brother committed.  Breathe before you try to explain what toy you just stepped on that I have asked you to pick up 100 times already.  Calm down.  I'd have better luck deciphering Lassie's bark then what a child is saying while screaming.


6.  List of things that your brother is not:  Invisible, invincible, immortal, a battering ram, a trampoline, a gun to shoot any substance or object, a slinky, a gymnast, Superman, Freddy Kreuger, balance beam, home gym, remote control, robot, animals of any sort, target practice, punching bag or object of revenge. 


7.  I am not really Wonder Woman. Seriously, I have only one head, heart and brain.  Freakishly I was born deformed for motherhood.  I came with only 2 arms, 2 legs, 2 ears and 1 body.  I have to make due with what God gave me.  Unlike Ben's mom I can't be in two places at once, part the Red Sea or pull baked goods from any of my orafices.  You'll have to survive on what I am.  Sorry. 


8.  Showering is my 10 minutes alone.  Keep it that way.  Crying outside of the bathroom door is annoying.  Stop it.  Don't bother me unless the house is on fire.  At least I will have the water to douse the fire with.  Go annoy your father.  he doesn't get a fraction of it that I do.  Go punish him for a few minutes.


9.  The television gets more than Disney, Noggin, Cartoon Network and the Sci Fi Channel.  It will not explode if your mother takes control of the remote.


10.  Most of all, I love my kids more than anything in the world.  I wouldn't trade them for anything.  Even when they go on haircut strikes, wear clothes that not only don't match but don't even fit, tell me that I can't dance or sing and to be normal in front of their friends, explain to teachers that they are going to need years of therapy after being raised by us, pull my hair, tell me they hate me and commit the above offenses repeatedly and without remorse.  They are still my babies and I wouldn't have it any other way.