Hearing

Today is Rocky's hearing. We were talking to him this morning about what to expect, and what he should say, and he came up with yet another explanation about what happened.

Finally, I had him make up a cheat sheet about what he told each person involved, so he could keep track of that was said. It turns out he lied to us up until this morning, even when we told him we wanted the truth.

I asked him if he really wanted my support. He said yes. I asked him if he thought the best way to get it was to lie and keep pushing me away. He started to cry.

Three minutes later, I asked him a question, and again he lied.

I give up.

Lull before the storm

I have been reading back through the posts for the month, and I discovered that we had a nice, peaceful period of time right before the knife incident. Things were ragingly middle class normal, the lull before the storm.

Which makes me wonder--why is it I was given this brief period of serenity, one where I could breathe without feeling the knot in my diaphragm? Was it to give me hope? To tease me? To show me how things should be? Well, all it did was make things harder still. I deeply resent Rocky's absolute stupidity in taking that knife to school. I find that I am feeling pretty uncompassionate about his situation--I'd like him to suffer more. This morning, he was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the floor and smiling to himself. It made me think of one of those creepy kids in the horror movies.

Today it is raining, and we will be in the house together all this dark day. I am thinking of sleeping it away.

Patty Hearst

I was thinking about Patty Hearst just now, trying to get a handle on how she became indoctrinated by her captors and bought in to their agenda, something which is called Stockholm Syndrome.

You would think, after ten years of living here, that Rocky might have bought into something. Yes, yes, I know--the first two years of his life were trauma and neglect, and then when he should have been bonding to us, he was terrified and fighting for what he thought was his survival. Plus, the prenatal exposures, coupled with the trauma, have affected his ability to use cause and effect thinking. No matter how much effort we make, how much work with do, how much therapy we provide, he still lies and steals and makes really really stupid choices.

We have a life which no one wants and few understand. My house has become like a prison or boot camp, and I have become the warden, drilling and supervising and sounding like Tommy Lee Jones with PMS. No offense to Mr. Jones--he is a fine actor, and I enjoy his work. But I am tired. Tired of chaos, tired of never believing what I am told. Tired of the fight, fight, fight, of not ever getting anywhere.

Maybe I'm the one getting Stockholm Syndrome.

Nest Box

My friend Maeve has directed me toward this web site, where a camera is in a nest box of a mother owl hatching owlets. I am fast becoming addicted to her activities.

Ten Days

For some stupid reason, Rocky took a steak knife to school. Of course, since he is a candidate for the dumb criminals hall of fame, the flap of his backpack, where the steak knife was stashed, got caught in his locker door, and the knife fell out.

And, being Rocky, he denied it up one side and down the other, horribly sincere. I told him, "I want the truth. I do not want to be blindsided when I go into the principal's office tomorrow morning. Our knives are unusual, and I will know right away if they are ours, so let me know now what to expect."

Nope. No way was it our knife. Wide eyes, sincere expression. I swear, Mom. Okay. Glad to hear it. I will defend you.

When I went in to the principal's office the next morning, I was of course blindsided. I told the principal, "It's one of ours. The little squirt's been lying to me. Where do we go from here."

I think he was a bit dumfounded at my reaction. However, why would I deny it? Obviously it was ours, and unless aliens beamed it out of my kitchen drawer and into the locker, Rocky was involved.

So we have ten days of suspension, which I am attempting to make as close to Hell on Earth as I possibly can. If I had my way, he would have been suspended in school, in a public area, where everyone could see him. However, this at-home thing is a punishment for me, too, as I have to come up with activities and labor to fill his time. I gave him a stack of worksheets and had him clean the linen closet, and it is now nine a.m.

This is going to be a long long long suspension. For both of us.

Little Dog

Yesterday I did a hospice vigil. In the room with me and the patient was a charming little dog, who was no larger than a cat with stubby legs, and a small, almost cat-like face. Actually, she looked more like a bat than a cat, with her little snub nose and teeny fangs and pointed little ears.


I was quite taken with this dog, who quietly sat there with us, snuggled down in the bed, giving comfort by her warm little presence. I am partial to dogs anyway, and I am periodically reminded of how they have learned to live in our world. They understand our language, and we sometimes learn theirs. My old dog, who is now gone, understood over 100 words and read my moods better than any human I have ever met. My Harry has learned to open the refrigerator and has his own schedule which dovetails with ours. Penny, my wild child, sits on the sofa and watches television after a hard day of playing ball with us. And Nash, well Nash is just dumb, but he wants to be loved by me or Rocky, little realizing that incessant yapping isn't helping that.

Just now I scolded Harry for licking the walls, so now I wonder how much he really has mastered living in our world after all. However, despite the wall licking, I think I'll keep him. He makes me smile.

We have become them . . .

Yesterday I went with my sister and cousin to see my only surviving aunt, the baby of the family, who is in hospice care. My sister commented that this was the last of that generation, and that the next wave of deaths will be the older cousins; they are not much younger than my aunt is.



Kiki is at girl scout camp for the weekend, and Nita asked a friend over to play. The girls are jumping around upstairs, over my head, giggling and playing, tweedling on the recorders which I force Nita to keep in her room and not play anywhere else in the house. I am sorting coupons and reading the paper. EG is watching a war movie on television, much like my father would watch John Wayne on Saturday afternoon, and Rocky is in the room with him, half watching and half devouring a new book he got today.



I realized that we have begun to settle in our "real" life, the one without the nursing home and the dreading of phone calls in the middle of the night. Kids are playing in the house, the dog is sleeping on his bed, and the war is on TV again for this generation. So, for a few years, we will this way of life, one which Nita called "boring" this afternoon when she asked to call her friend. And, frankly, a few years of boring is what we need.