One odd thing I found out about myself once I got out of high school was that I was a kinesthetic learner--I have to do or experience things to learn. Even if I write an essay, I have to walk around the room while editing in order to be effective.
Unfortunately, that carries over into life in general. I do not learn by reading that patience is a virtue, nor do I learn by people telling me how strong I really am. I have to learn to have patience by experiencing the same things, over and over again, which make me impatient. I have to be tested to learn, finally, how strong I am.
One thing which I cannot learn, however, is to not worry. It appears to be an unwanted hobby of mine. I generally will awake about three a.m. and begin to worry about various things, none of which I can control or address at that time. And no matter how many times things work out okay, I still continue to worry, forever generating new worries and losing way too much sleep over these mostly unwarranted concerns.
If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know. I would like to take up something more restful than worrying for the new year, perhaps fencing or fire walking or motocross racing.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Manicure mania
Kiki is at that age where she no longer gets toys for Christmas, so Nita gave her nail clippers and a small manicure set, a choice which was helped along by their mother.
Never has so much attention been paid to nail care. We have had a frenzy of salon activity here. Kiki trimmed and polished her own nails. She gave Nita a cuticle treatment. Then she trimmed Rocky's ragged nails, ignoring his yelps of pain when she removed portions of his fingerprints as well, simply sitting on his arm to hold him still to "prevent any pain." During quiet time yesterday, she and Nita gave poor long-suffering Bob the Bunny a pedicure. When she started eyeballing Dirty Harry's dewclaws and discussing which nail color would best match his brown coat, we declared a moratorium on beauty treatments for the day.
Never has so much attention been paid to nail care. We have had a frenzy of salon activity here. Kiki trimmed and polished her own nails. She gave Nita a cuticle treatment. Then she trimmed Rocky's ragged nails, ignoring his yelps of pain when she removed portions of his fingerprints as well, simply sitting on his arm to hold him still to "prevent any pain." During quiet time yesterday, she and Nita gave poor long-suffering Bob the Bunny a pedicure. When she started eyeballing Dirty Harry's dewclaws and discussing which nail color would best match his brown coat, we declared a moratorium on beauty treatments for the day.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Guilt and guidance
The hardest thing about the dementia which affected our family, for me, is the guilt.
I see it now in my neighbor: she feels guilty because she couldn't keep her husband home; she feels guilty because she is relaxing and resting now with him in the facility; she feels guilty because she is relieved to have that stress from her life. When my father died, I felt guilty because I felt relief, and I will feel relief again when my Mom goes, along with the grieving I am doing and have done. So much in the way of loss. We work so hard and spend so much money to keep them alive, and for what? Mom always said (in her own illogical/logical way),"There are worse things in life than being dead."
One thing which saddens my sister but impresses me is how comfortable my kids have become around the odd behavior manifestations shown by the people in the nursing home. The kids, especially the girls, just go with whatever comes up during a visit. Plus, they have learned to see the people who are in there behind the strange brain activity.
On Christmas, my cousins Ida and Sara had sent a huge box filled with great kid presents: fun pens, decks of cards, pencils, small things which kids love. The kids, with some prodding, had agreed to forego opening presents at home on Christmas morning, and to take their stockings and the box to the nursing home to open in front of my mom and her friends. (We would have the family present opening at home closer to lunch). When we left the nursing home, not one kid had any candy left in their stockings--they had joyously shared it with the people there and probably got more enjoyment out of that than they would consuming the candy themselves.
When it was time to go, we went around and said Merry Christmas to the residents. One lady, who has progressed quite far with her dementia and who frightens many visitors with her odd behavior, gave us the absolute sweetest smile, and the kids gave her a hug and kiss. Somehow, deep inside her, she found some memory of Christmas and blessed us by sharing, oh so briefly, the love and joy from that day.
Perhaps it is odd that some of my kids' most important lessons in life, love, and loss are being learned in a locked wing with people who are diagnosed with a form of mental illness. However, I am content to let the kids glean what they can from all this--in this case, our guides have damaged bodies and fragile minds, but their souls are still very much intact, and I somehow think that they are in closer contact with heaven than we are and consequently know what is really important. And who better to provide us with direction?
I see it now in my neighbor: she feels guilty because she couldn't keep her husband home; she feels guilty because she is relaxing and resting now with him in the facility; she feels guilty because she is relieved to have that stress from her life. When my father died, I felt guilty because I felt relief, and I will feel relief again when my Mom goes, along with the grieving I am doing and have done. So much in the way of loss. We work so hard and spend so much money to keep them alive, and for what? Mom always said (in her own illogical/logical way),"There are worse things in life than being dead."
One thing which saddens my sister but impresses me is how comfortable my kids have become around the odd behavior manifestations shown by the people in the nursing home. The kids, especially the girls, just go with whatever comes up during a visit. Plus, they have learned to see the people who are in there behind the strange brain activity.
On Christmas, my cousins Ida and Sara had sent a huge box filled with great kid presents: fun pens, decks of cards, pencils, small things which kids love. The kids, with some prodding, had agreed to forego opening presents at home on Christmas morning, and to take their stockings and the box to the nursing home to open in front of my mom and her friends. (We would have the family present opening at home closer to lunch). When we left the nursing home, not one kid had any candy left in their stockings--they had joyously shared it with the people there and probably got more enjoyment out of that than they would consuming the candy themselves.
When it was time to go, we went around and said Merry Christmas to the residents. One lady, who has progressed quite far with her dementia and who frightens many visitors with her odd behavior, gave us the absolute sweetest smile, and the kids gave her a hug and kiss. Somehow, deep inside her, she found some memory of Christmas and blessed us by sharing, oh so briefly, the love and joy from that day.
Perhaps it is odd that some of my kids' most important lessons in life, love, and loss are being learned in a locked wing with people who are diagnosed with a form of mental illness. However, I am content to let the kids glean what they can from all this--in this case, our guides have damaged bodies and fragile minds, but their souls are still very much intact, and I somehow think that they are in closer contact with heaven than we are and consequently know what is really important. And who better to provide us with direction?
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
The Wasabi Soy Mystery
I gave EG flavored almonds for his birthday. Today, there is one almond left in the container, and the investigation into who consumed the contents is in full-out operation.
Of course, no one is admitting that they had anything to do with the crime. If they had their way, the children would place all the blame on the dogs, who have been cleared because the lid was replaced on the container, and the dogs do not have opposable thumbs. Plus, their tastes being what they are, they would have eaten the container, too.
Consequently, the kids are alluding to someone breaking in while we were out looking at Christmas lights, ignoring the electronics in the house, and eating the almonds, leaving one to throw us off the track.
Maybe we should dust for fingerprints.
This reminds me of a neighbor we used to have, one who called the police because someone came in and stole her scissors out of her desk. When the police answered the burglary call, they discovered the scissors in a different drawer than where they were usually stored. Our neighbor insisted that these were not her scissors, but exact replicas left by the thieves to throw law enforcement off their trail.
Just now, when we subjected each kid to individual questioning, Nita was tripped up and said, "But I didn't eat ALL of them."
We allowed her to plea bargain.
Of course, no one is admitting that they had anything to do with the crime. If they had their way, the children would place all the blame on the dogs, who have been cleared because the lid was replaced on the container, and the dogs do not have opposable thumbs. Plus, their tastes being what they are, they would have eaten the container, too.
Consequently, the kids are alluding to someone breaking in while we were out looking at Christmas lights, ignoring the electronics in the house, and eating the almonds, leaving one to throw us off the track.
Maybe we should dust for fingerprints.
This reminds me of a neighbor we used to have, one who called the police because someone came in and stole her scissors out of her desk. When the police answered the burglary call, they discovered the scissors in a different drawer than where they were usually stored. Our neighbor insisted that these were not her scissors, but exact replicas left by the thieves to throw law enforcement off their trail.
Just now, when we subjected each kid to individual questioning, Nita was tripped up and said, "But I didn't eat ALL of them."
We allowed her to plea bargain.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Christmas letters
My dear friend Toby suggested that we write Christmas letters and include the story of Rocky as the night visitor.
This led me to reminisce about those form letters which we have received in the past.
My one neighbor, Mrs. Gladys Kravitz, always sent those we-are-so-fabulous-I-bet-you-wish-you-were-us newsletters to my mother, who lived next door. It made me want to gag.
I was always so tempted to send out our own version.
Dear Friends,
Merry Christmas! Yet another year has passed, this one more eventful than the last.
This year, Kiki struggled in math. She has gone to tutoring and has brought her grade from a 40% to a 42%! We are so proud of her, and it cost us only three thousand dollars. The doctor finally has diagnosed her with attention deficit disorder, and we are hoping that is the reason for all those outbursts which we have formerly attributed to hormones.
Rocky is doing so much better; we are so very proud of him. We have been to the police station only one time this year, and the police have been here only once--and this time, he didn't use the siren. Plus, he has been banned from only one store this year, and it is one which we don't frequent anyway. Rocky has been chosen for a special group in school, and he gets to go to a math class with three other boys. Not only that, he has been singled out for reading and is in a class by himself. Plus, his teacher has chosen him to sit with his desk right against hers, and the lunch room ladies allow him to have his own table and sometimes even sit with the girls! He has joined boy scouts, and the leaders like him so well they have chosen him to sit next to them at every meeting! This kid is truly loved.
This year has been great for Nita, too. Hers was the first name learned by her teacher, and the teacher has our phone number on speed dial on her cell phone. I feel so blessed--we are so popular!
My true Christmas blessing is that Mrs. Kravitz doesn't like us and doesn't send us those letters. Perhaps she is afraid of what she might get in return.
Happy holidays to all, and may peace prevail in your homes.
This led me to reminisce about those form letters which we have received in the past.
My one neighbor, Mrs. Gladys Kravitz, always sent those we-are-so-fabulous-I-bet-you-wish-you-were-us newsletters to my mother, who lived next door. It made me want to gag.
I was always so tempted to send out our own version.
Dear Friends,
Merry Christmas! Yet another year has passed, this one more eventful than the last.
This year, Kiki struggled in math. She has gone to tutoring and has brought her grade from a 40% to a 42%! We are so proud of her, and it cost us only three thousand dollars. The doctor finally has diagnosed her with attention deficit disorder, and we are hoping that is the reason for all those outbursts which we have formerly attributed to hormones.
Rocky is doing so much better; we are so very proud of him. We have been to the police station only one time this year, and the police have been here only once--and this time, he didn't use the siren. Plus, he has been banned from only one store this year, and it is one which we don't frequent anyway. Rocky has been chosen for a special group in school, and he gets to go to a math class with three other boys. Not only that, he has been singled out for reading and is in a class by himself. Plus, his teacher has chosen him to sit with his desk right against hers, and the lunch room ladies allow him to have his own table and sometimes even sit with the girls! He has joined boy scouts, and the leaders like him so well they have chosen him to sit next to them at every meeting! This kid is truly loved.
This year has been great for Nita, too. Hers was the first name learned by her teacher, and the teacher has our phone number on speed dial on her cell phone. I feel so blessed--we are so popular!
My true Christmas blessing is that Mrs. Kravitz doesn't like us and doesn't send us those letters. Perhaps she is afraid of what she might get in return.
Happy holidays to all, and may peace prevail in your homes.
Friday, December 21, 2007
A series of illogical events
Rocky, as I have said, was diagnosed with attachment disorder. His disorder is now considered to be resolving, but he still has a diagnosis of attention deficit/hyperactivity.
Last week, I parked on the street in front of his scoutmaster's house to drop him off for a meeting. This decision on my part started a chain reaction of illogical events.
Rocky hopped out of the van and raced down the sidewalk, past the scoutmaster's house, to the NEIGHBOR'S house. I started honking my horn, but he ignored me, thinking I was saying an enthusiastic goodbye.
He said he went to the other house because the neighbors had more cars in their driveway. To make matters worse, Rocky ignored all his previous manners training and didn't knock at the wrong house--he just opened the door and thundered into the front hall. Then he froze.
The family, a mom, a dad, and two toddlers, was sitting around their kitchen table eating supper; they, too, froze when Rocky walked in. It isn't every day a black kid waltzes into someone else's house out here.
Rocky asked, "Is this the boy scout meeting?" Oh, duh.
The family stared, forks poised above their plates. One of the little boys began screaming, "A monster! A monster!" Now, I'm not up on these things, but how many monsters are four feet tall and wear cub scout uniforms...
The light finally dawned. Rocky said, stating the obvious, "Uh, wrong house" and backed back out the door. The family stared after him.
Rocky came back down the driveway and zipped back to the van. The girls and I were doubled over laughing.
Tonight I dropped Rocky off again. I was so tempted to drive into the wrong driveway, just to see if the neighbors had started locking their door against marauding monster webelos. However, I restrained myself and parked at the right house.
This one time.
Last week, I parked on the street in front of his scoutmaster's house to drop him off for a meeting. This decision on my part started a chain reaction of illogical events.
Rocky hopped out of the van and raced down the sidewalk, past the scoutmaster's house, to the NEIGHBOR'S house. I started honking my horn, but he ignored me, thinking I was saying an enthusiastic goodbye.
He said he went to the other house because the neighbors had more cars in their driveway. To make matters worse, Rocky ignored all his previous manners training and didn't knock at the wrong house--he just opened the door and thundered into the front hall. Then he froze.
The family, a mom, a dad, and two toddlers, was sitting around their kitchen table eating supper; they, too, froze when Rocky walked in. It isn't every day a black kid waltzes into someone else's house out here.
Rocky asked, "Is this the boy scout meeting?" Oh, duh.
The family stared, forks poised above their plates. One of the little boys began screaming, "A monster! A monster!" Now, I'm not up on these things, but how many monsters are four feet tall and wear cub scout uniforms...
The light finally dawned. Rocky said, stating the obvious, "Uh, wrong house" and backed back out the door. The family stared after him.
Rocky came back down the driveway and zipped back to the van. The girls and I were doubled over laughing.
Tonight I dropped Rocky off again. I was so tempted to drive into the wrong driveway, just to see if the neighbors had started locking their door against marauding monster webelos. However, I restrained myself and parked at the right house.
This one time.
I recently ran across the story of Peggy Hilt, an adoptive mom who beat her daughter, causing the child to die.
Here is the link:
http://www.newsweek.com/id/74385?GT1=10645
I have two domestically adopted children and one bio daughter, and with Rocky I was THIS CLOSE to where Peggy Hilt was. And I do mean THIS CLOSE—I had something in my hand and was heading toward him, enraged beyond anything I had ever experienced before. And Rocky, at two, stood there and laughed at me. Luckily, I was able to detach enough to leave him in his room, lock the door, and call someone to come help me before I crossed that line.
Attachment disorder is hard for many people to understand because it totally contradicts the conventional belief that "all they need is love." When a child has not had the basic needs met of crying for a caregiver and having that caregiver come, they don't need love in the traditional sense--they need a therapeutic form of loving and parenting. New parents will take a child who has been surrendered, thinking that THEY can do what the previous parents did not.
What I think people fail to realize is that some adopted children, because of the trauma they experience, are driven by fear, so they are constantly fighting to maintain control of their environment. These kids honestly believe they are fighting for their lives because they could not depend on caregivers in the past, and their interactions with parents, especially moms, have been described as abuse. Much like other forms of abuse, it is subtle and gradual, and the parents feel isolated and are afraid they will be judged or blamed.
To make matters worse, the child is so outwardly charming to everyone else, the parents appear to be unbalanced.
Plus, it is hard to admit "I feel like killing this child" because people do not understand the complexity of the situation--they read an article or see an episode of Law and Order and think they understand this disorder. Also, many kids, both foreign and domestic, suffer from other disorders--fetal alcohol exposure, drug exposure, mental illness, lead exposure, autistic spectrum, and even physical illnesses; this makes the treatment each kid receives complex and different.
Parents who are interested in adopting should educate themselves about issues experienced by children who are in the system. It may take years to find an answer or a treatment which works. Also, they should be prepared to love fully and totally and perhaps not be able to reach this child. Some of the absolute best parents I know would traditionally viewed as failures because their children can no longer remain in the home, but to me, they are the real heroes, the true parents, as they have shown a damaged child what a family feels like.
Here is the link:
http://www.newsweek.com/id/74385?GT1=10645
I have two domestically adopted children and one bio daughter, and with Rocky I was THIS CLOSE to where Peggy Hilt was. And I do mean THIS CLOSE—I had something in my hand and was heading toward him, enraged beyond anything I had ever experienced before. And Rocky, at two, stood there and laughed at me. Luckily, I was able to detach enough to leave him in his room, lock the door, and call someone to come help me before I crossed that line.
Attachment disorder is hard for many people to understand because it totally contradicts the conventional belief that "all they need is love." When a child has not had the basic needs met of crying for a caregiver and having that caregiver come, they don't need love in the traditional sense--they need a therapeutic form of loving and parenting. New parents will take a child who has been surrendered, thinking that THEY can do what the previous parents did not.
What I think people fail to realize is that some adopted children, because of the trauma they experience, are driven by fear, so they are constantly fighting to maintain control of their environment. These kids honestly believe they are fighting for their lives because they could not depend on caregivers in the past, and their interactions with parents, especially moms, have been described as abuse. Much like other forms of abuse, it is subtle and gradual, and the parents feel isolated and are afraid they will be judged or blamed.
To make matters worse, the child is so outwardly charming to everyone else, the parents appear to be unbalanced.
Plus, it is hard to admit "I feel like killing this child" because people do not understand the complexity of the situation--they read an article or see an episode of Law and Order and think they understand this disorder. Also, many kids, both foreign and domestic, suffer from other disorders--fetal alcohol exposure, drug exposure, mental illness, lead exposure, autistic spectrum, and even physical illnesses; this makes the treatment each kid receives complex and different.
Parents who are interested in adopting should educate themselves about issues experienced by children who are in the system. It may take years to find an answer or a treatment which works. Also, they should be prepared to love fully and totally and perhaps not be able to reach this child. Some of the absolute best parents I know would traditionally viewed as failures because their children can no longer remain in the home, but to me, they are the real heroes, the true parents, as they have shown a damaged child what a family feels like.
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