Fred, a deer, a female deer

One afternoon earlier this month, Nita said to me, "Fred's in the backyard."

I looked out the window and so no one.

"Where?" I asked.

"Out there by the old garden." I looked again.

"All I see is a deer," I told her.

"Yes," she said. "That's Fred."

So we have seen Fred early in the morning and later in the evening, just about daily. She is a gorgeous doe, nearly red in color. Because she never went too far from the thicket which EG let grow back there, I suspected there was a fawn.

The other morning, EG brought my attention to the fawn, which was in the old garden, Fred nearby. The fawn had the long, awkward Bambi legs, the trademark white spots, and a huge white tail. We watched the two as the sun came up. Yesterday, the fawn was drinking out of a drainage ditch next to the garage, legs spread wide so he could reach the water, and this evening, Fred and the fawn were under the kitchen window, nibbling the young grass which we planted after the septic system was dug up.

Last night, Penny alerted on a particular part of the thicket, so I know where the baby is hidden, or at least suspect where. Next year, we will have a garden, which I will fence, as I don't ever want to discourage the deer from living here.

Pants on fire

When Rocky was three, he was diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder. At the time, I knew that was the issue, but I hoped for a different outcome, a disorder which could quite nicely be treated with a pill once or twice a day.

No such luck.

We had to work through the inappropriate urination, aggression, fire setting, out of control behavior, lying, self-mutilation, stealing, you name it, if it was a symptom of attachment disorder, he pretty much had it. Add to that the constant battle for control.

One of the behaviors which I struggle with yet, or I guess I should say, HE struggles with yet, is the lying. We used to say, "Is his mouth moving? Then he's lying." Now though, he can be truthful for weeks on end, and then kabam, he will lie. The big problem is it is a knee jerk reaction, deception from the gut, not the brain, and once it is out, he will hold fiercely to the lie, no matter how idiotic it is.

Then, of course, we go back to the old techniques, old ways of parenting, and eventually he will be truthful again. I suppose I ought to journal this, as it may give me a clue as to whether we are making progress, gradually extending the times between lying episodes.

But what if there isn't progress? Would I really want to know?

Weary

Today I am thinking about the word "weary."

When I tried to type the word, the first time I typed "eary." The second time, I typed "wary."

According to Merriam-Webster online, weary means:

1 : exhausted in strength, endurance, vigor, or freshness 2 : expressing or characteristic of weariness 3 : having one's patience, tolerance, or pleasure exhausted —used with of

I'd like doors number one and three, please.

Every morning, Rocky plays around in his room unless we go in and announce, "Get up, get dressed, and get out here. Now." Then he shows up at his leisure for breakfast,which generally is over, as we eat that meal between eight and nine. It isn't like he can't hear the dishes and conversation of the girls as they go about feeding themselves. The first few times, he pulled the pitiful act, telling me, "I didn't know I could eat breakfast during certain times." Phooey. Unless you see golden arches over this house, kid, you can't show up and place an order.

Then he puts the same clothes on as the previous day unless we have reminded him the night before to put his dirty clothes in the specified place for washing. When he chooses a new outfit, he most likely will need to be sent back to change something, as he will put on the first thing he grabs. This week, on a humid July morning, he showed up in a hoodie and his sister's track shorts which were in his drawer by mistake.

Another thing which is difficult is my mother's situation. The blessing about dementia is that she doesn't know how bad she is. The sad part is that she doesn't know who she is or where she is or at what point in time she's existing in her mind. Plus, with the poor care she is receiving, I do little more than show up and fix things. I pull into the nursing home parking lot, look at the building, and think, "I do not want to go in there." If I am supposed to be learning a lesson here, I have no idea what it could be.

Then there's my job. I love my job, but I don't understand the dynamics of the people who work there, nor do I care to. In my opinion, administration needs to tell these people to grow up and use the energy to get their jobs done. Plus, I hate being managed by memo. If I do something wrong, tell me in person during work hours, don't send me an email at five on a Friday evening, when I have no way of clarifying what exactly was incorrect or inappropriate.

So, I am weary. I ask my kids if they want cheese to go with their whine, and I guess I need to ask myself the same thing. Yes, please. A big chunk of Havarti on thick Italian bread, grilled to oozing perfection. I think that may be just what the doctor ordered. That, or a trip to the beach with a blender, a long extension cord, and some supplies.

PITA

I have been thinking seriously about moving my mom from the nursing home she is in, even going so far as to run a reconnaissance mission with Kiki on Tuesday.

We went to a nearby nursing home, signed in as our first names only, and under "resident visited," scribbled "facility" in a barely readable manner. Then we walked through the entire place, peeking in rooms and eavesdropping on the staff interactions with the residents. I was pretty impressed with what I saw and ended up calling my sister, who encouraged me to fill out the paperwork.

While I was there, I ran into one of the aides who used to care for my mom, and he said, "I don't blame you for moving her here. That other place doesn't treat the staff right at all."

And there you have it. The administration thinks they are being "strict" to keep quality of care, I am sure. However, what they are doing is driving away the good staff who can get jobs someplace else which is more pleasant, and rotating new staff through at such a rate that no one can become familiar with and come to care about the residents. And this is my mother.

Some people at the "old place" know I am looking to move Mom, but they haven't said a word to me about it. My office partner said, "They want you gone because you're a pain in the ass." My response to that is, for $200 a day, I expect care in the truest sense of the word. If the facility cannot or will not provide that for my family member, you bet I'm going to be a pain in the ass.

Does anyone care out there?

Today, going through some papers, I found a penpal letter written to Nita in school. This boy wrote in very neat cursive, using full sentences, and accurate spelling.

Nita's writing, on the other hand, looks like a flock of birds hopped onto an inkpad and then onto the paper. She is a free spirit about grammar, punctuation, and spelling, and I never realized how far behind she is until I saw this other letter.

Ohio's governing bodies are working on the budget, and as part of that, they are thinking about cutting the post adoption special subsidy money which is used for therapy for families who have adopted. I wrote an email to the governor this morning, asking him to fight for this funding. Not only will it help kids with exposures, like Nita, but it will help those with attachment issues. This funding is like an investment in lower crime, lower births to mothers who do not have the capability to parent, and more contributing members to society.

I asked Rocky, who is healing from reactive attachment disorder, to comment. He said, "Tell the governor these kids deserve a chance."

I can't say more.

Independence Day

Yesterday, we had a small town Fourth of July. We went to a neighboring community to see the parade, as my brother-in-law enters his 1932 Buick in parades and car contests, and we were invited to watch and, of course, vote. Plus, my niece was riding on the 4-H float, and my nephew's friend had entered his tractor. The kids ended up invited to ride in the Buick in the parade, along with brother-in-law's mother-in-law, who donned the tiara we gave her as a joke and waved enthusiastically to the crowd in a wave-wave-elbow-elbow pattern. The rest of the parade consisted six VFW members in a sixties era Chevy Impala, which was, of course, Fourth of July red, several tractors, one of which kept stalling and needed to be chain towed and started again in gear by the tractor ahead of it, a judge throwing candy from a convertible, the antique and classic cars, a county commissioner playing march music from speakers on top of the car, two cub scout troops, the historical society float of salt making by the pioneers, two horses, a pony, three clowns, and a man on his highly waxed lawn mower.

Then there were games for the kids, who all won a hot dog and popsicle at the concession stand for their prowess in the sack races and water balloon tossing. Nita didn't win in the sack race, as she reached the home stretch and face planted just before the finish line, most likely because she was wearing her ghastly pink crocs inside the pillow case. However, she had a water balloon toss partner who threatened her with the balloon right before the game commenced, causing her to be less distracted and cocky, which made for a winning combination.

Last night we had a party.

The last party we had was two years ago, when EG invited a friend whose wife I somehow must have insulted during the evening, as she completely ignored me and refused all contact after that, to the point where her husband severed all contact with EG after a few months.

So, needless to say, I wasn't in a hurry to hostess again. However, last night we celebrated our neighbor's last fireworks extravaganza by having a few people over. I asked my sister and niece, as I figured the first holiday after a loss is so hard. I also asked my brother-in-law and his partner and the no longer tiara wearing mother-in-law, a friend from work, and my friend from high school, who was in town for the weekend. It was a nice mix. The fireworks were late, when it was completely dark, and there was lots of laughter and lots of talking.

It was good for us, too. We have experienced so much sadness in the past few years that we find ourselves turning more and more inward. We need to invite the world in more and shut it out less.

Un-working

I've been on vacation since June 21, my own school responsibilities ending on June 18, and except for the funeral, I have had a series of unplanned days. I do all the things I normally do, but without the focus that I have when I am working and in school. I always liken it to having a scuba diving mask on, seeing out the front, but being aware that there is more out there, the world kind of echo-y and distorted because of that focus.

I have attended to my list of five minute jobs which never seem to get done.

I have cleaned behind, under, and between things.

I have spent time with my children and my sister, listening.

I read an entire book, one which was fiction, for no reason other than I wanted to do so.

I have slept deeply and for eight hours most nights, with little wakefulness.

When I was awakened, it was by the coyotes yipping outside my window. Even the dogs and kids seem to be buying into my relaxed state.

July crept in on us, up from behind, surprising us that so much of the summer was already over. After this week, I have three more days, and then I go back to both worlds. I always wondered if women who stayed at home felt like their lives were slipping by day by day, with little to show for it except how they affected the lives of their families. And I wondered if it was worth it. However, I now see that there is something to being there so others can live their lives better. Maybe it isn't all about me.