Barnmaven

On love, blended families, and housework

 

Last year SG and I were a happily dating, newly-in-love couple.  Valentine's day, on my night without the kids, was so romantic.  Being an old-fashioned kind of fellow, he thoughtfully brought me a lovely box of candy and a bouquet of flowers.  So sweet.  As I recall, I gave him a book on some kind of tantric-sex thing.  (And now you know why he loves me so much).  We had a lovely dinner at a local Italian restaurant and listened to a local couple playing guitar and singing ballads.  We played footsie at the table and we stayed up way too late doing things I can't mention in public. 

A year later, we're married, parenting a blended family, working the kinks out of who's responsible for what, and marveling at how, amidst the chaos, we manage to find time for lovely kisses and murmered promises for later after the kids go to bed.  And we do.  Find time.

He's home right now, getting ready to leave for six weeks on a road job, and then starting a new job in town after that. 

We have discussions about the housework and what's a fair split of chores.  I feel that since I'm the one working full time, while for now he's home, 90% of it ought to belong to him.  He doesn't disagree, but frankly he's not the most efficient housekeeper I've ever had.  And reluctant to boot.  I don't blame him, if I have the time to do other things, the last thing I really want to do is clean toilets and sweep floors and fold laundry.  I think we both have frequent wet dreams about when he's home from this next job and working full time and we win the lottery, having enough money to maybe pay someone else to come in and do the cleaning. 

Until then though, SG is the one who's supposed to be doing the bulk of it, but frankly not getting much of it done.  Last Monday I thought maybe making him a list of the top priority items would help. Six days later, Sunday, and about half the list is still waiting to be tackled.  I did not mention, and likely do not need to at this point, that efficiency is not SG's greatest strength.  There's always a Mises Institute lecture to be listened to, people on Facebook need to be argued with, and Words with Friends (and him being beaten mercilessly by my sister) beckons alluringly.

I went off to go on a lovely trail ride late Sunday morning and then ended up doing errands and not getting home til dinnertime.  I hoped - truly hoped - that I'd come home to dinner and a clean house.

Not so.

My house was a disaster, SG was completely frazzled and chaos abounded.  "I don't know how you manage it when I'm not here," he says, "every five minutes there's an interruption.  I just lost a whole hour!  Race Car man wanted a sandwich so I was in the middle of making that and then Amazon Girl sliced her finger open and there was blood everywhere and while I was in the middle of taking care of that T-Bone managed to steal the half-done sandwich off the counter and then Race Car Man threw a fit about not getting his food in a timely manner!  I'm exhausted!"

Heh.  Welcome to my world, babycakes.  I tried not to be too obvious about the laughing.

Its not too often he gets left with them for the entire day.  And to be truthful, not every single day is THAT chaotic.  But those days are far too frequent in my house, and when we have them, it IS exhausting.  Poor guy, after that he ended up staying up almost all night working on his paperwork for the road job that was due first thing Monday morning.  I got up at 3 am and he was still struggling getting the scanner to put the 60 pages of required information into one document instead of 60 documents.  (As an aside, if you want to work in the nuke industry, be prepared to provide exhausting details about every place you have worked in the last ten years including exact dates and addresses, every place you've lived for more than three months in the last ten years, your shoe size, IQ, everyone you've ever slept with or dated or even looked at sideways on the bus  and whether or not you hate your mother. Those people give a whole new meaning to crawling up your ass with a microscope.  One thing's for certain, I don't believe I'd ever be able to get security clearance at the plants he works at.) 

I felt bad for him, so I got up and helped him get everything scanned and sorted and emailed out.  We crawled back into bed at 4:30 AM, me to get one more half hour of sleep and him to get two hours before he needed to get the kids ready for school. 

There's just no time, sometimes.  And now its Valentine's Day, and its my week with the kids, so there will be no romantic date at a nice italian restaurant with live music.  There will likely be food on the walls, children being loud, dogs barking at everything that walks by the window, cats knocking things off counters.  But there will also be stolen kisses and Valentine's Day flowers and footsies under the dinner table and an early bedtime for the youngsters so us old folks can have some adult time. 

This year is certainly a far cry from last year.  But honestly?  I think its way better.

 

 

Badass Dentistry

Here's where I admit yet another of my many failures as a mother, try to give you some bullshit excuse and then tell you how I've oversome it and now I'm a really awesome parent.

(When I was in 4-H many years ago while dinosaurs roamed the earth, they told us always to present a topic to your audience by telling them what you're going to tell them, then tell them it in detail, then summarize what you just told them.  Personally I find that boring as hell, but a little preshadowing never hurts.)

I believe my insane fear of the dentist is well into the public domain.  When I wrote that it had been two years since I had been to the dentist, what I didn't tell you is that it had also been two years for my children as well.

I know, I suck.

Its not easy to take your kids to the dentist when your own bad experiences overlay everything that's going on.  Its not easy to take them when you remember like yesterday your toddler having to undergo general anaesthesia because she couldn't handle sedation dentistry.  Its not easy to take them when your youngest child has been so anxious and afraid he screams whenever the dentist tries to look in his mouth.  No, its not impossible.  Its just not easy.  And for two years I've been hovering over them while they brush, threatening them with descriptions of what they'll be like wearing dentures in their twenties as a consequence for poor dental hygeine.  Oh yes, I'm a wonderful mother.

This year, though, I decided, would be THE YEAR.  My daughter has mostly overcome her issues with the dentist and I was more worried about the extent of the damage from the two-year-haitus in dental care than anything else.  But I was really, really avoiding having to deal with the little man and his anxieties.  Not looking forward to it at all. 

To put teeth in my resolve, I scheduled dental appointments for everyone in the family.  SG and I both had our exams and cleanings and are still in sticker shock over the anticipated costs for the crowns we both need (gritting your teeth when you are stressed is by all evidence a very bad thing to do).  The kids' appointment hit some conflicts and had to be rescheduled twice, and each time I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking, "Oh thank GOD, I can put this off a little longer." 

I kept waiting for a good excuse to reschedule a third time, but life refused to cooperate, so I showed up at the dental office with a little bit of determination and a whole lot of apprehension.  In keeping with our reward-based behavior mods for Race Car Man, he had been promised some DS during free time if he let the dentist look at his teeth. 

Not being one to aim low, he went for the gold.

Not only did the doctor get to examine his teeth, he let the hygienist clean them and give him a flouride treatment AND he got both bite-wings and a panoramic x-ray. 

It was a raging success.

While I think the kid-friendly open seating and movie screens (with headsets) helped, the most important factor was the dentist and his staff.  He introduced himself to my children:  "Hi, my name's David.  What's yours?"  And from there it was just marvelous.  He said we would let my son set the pace and they would not do any procedure he didn't consent to.   He then spent a good five minutes just chatting with each of my kids, asking them about their interests and their schools and their friends, and he didn't ask them to open their mouths until he had really earned the right to do so.

C:  "Why are you wearing that mask?"

D:  "I want to cover my mouth.  I have to talk sometimes when I'm working on your teeth, and sometimes when I talk a little piece of spit might come flying out of my mouth.  If your mouth is open at the same time, my spit might go in your mouth and man, that's just GROSS." 

Badass.  If the man wasn't already married with about 10 children, and if I wasn't so damn much in love with SG, I would have kissed him.

The hygienists were equally as badass.

They let my son feel the rubber cap on the cleaning tool.  They let him watch other kids have their x-rays done so he would understand the process.  They gave my daughter purple sunglasses because she's sensitive to the overhead light.   When my son wanted to get up and look around the room, they allowed him complete freedom.  They had screens on the ceilings above the chairs and nice padded headsets for them to watch movies.  They answered their questions. They explained things very factually but in terms that were not frightening.  They treated them with respect.

It was clear to see that this was not their first experience with special needs, and it was equally clear that the comfort of their patients is their number one priority. 

While its still true that in my heart of hearts I'm no fan of the dentist, in this one case, I may have to make an exception. 

Dentistry for kids.  Totally BADASS.

The snow fell and I right along with it

Finally, it came.  Boy, howdy, did it come.  We got a good six inches between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning.  School was delayed, meetings were cancelled, we pretty much didn't leave the house except for putting the kids on the bus and getting them back off. 

The kids had a blast playing in the snow.  All Wednesday it was the perfect snowball snow - fluffy, just wet enough to stick together to form a ball.  Race Car man quickly got over his aversion to socks when he discovered how cold his feet got in his snow boots without them. 

We found out Wednesday night that school was cancelled for Thursday and the kids were beside themselves with the excitement of playing outside all day long.

We woke yesterday to a light freezing rain that continued all day long.  It left a two-inch layer of ice crystals on top of our snow and coated every tree, fence, mailbox and vehicle in a sheet of ice. 

I did leave the house, though.  Had to.  We we were out of dog food and milk, two things that in this household are required to keep the earth revolving around the sun.  And then, I had the followup appointment for Race Car Man's evaluation.  He had to retake one test series, and then we met with the psychologist.

I answered a lot of questions.  My son answered some questions.  The doctor was kind, measured, and very patient.  As he interviewed me, he completed an evaluation.  We clarified some questions.    He will compile his report and send it to us, probably in a week.  But of course, as a parent, you want to know the answers to your questions, even if you think you know what they are. And so I asked him.  And he very kindly and gently shared the results of the evalution form he had just completed with me.

I've had to learn some new phrases about myself over the last couple of months - some easier, some harder.  I've had to learn how to say "I am a wife" after a few years of wanting to be anything but. 

I had to learn how to say "My brother is dead" and saying it still causes a surge of anxiety and pain that feels like its going to break my sternum in half.

And as of yesterday, I have one more to add.

"My son has autism."

 

 

 

 

Seeing beyond the label

Tomorrow the race car man has a very long evaluation to do. 

When his teacher wrote us to say that he was not showing any behavioral advances in school and that she felt something was missing from his diagnostic picture and definitely his medication toolbox, I stopped procrastinating and got on the phone with the insurance company.

The child psychiatrist who also manages Amazon Girl’s medication spent a half day with us, and we walked away from that appointment with a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication.  In just days we saw major improvements both in his ability to be more compliant at school and in the frequency and severity of his sensory meltdowns.   

This second evaluation will give me a much clearer picture of where we will need to approach behavioral therapy from.

I tell my kids frequently that I’m the luckiest mom in the world, and I believe that with all my heart.  There are times that their behaviors are irritating, when its easy to lose sight of the essential truth, that they are each unique and perfect in their own way.   While I like to think they embody the best traits of both their father and I, its probably more accurate to say that in two separate instances, our mutual DNA combined to bring something entirely new and special to life. 

Its easy when you have lots of doctors and diagnoses to get lost in the land of labels.  We need to have names and labels for our disorders, for our behaviors, yes.  But my child is much more than his labels.  His labels do not define for you at all the nature of who he is and what gifts he possesses within him.  My daughter’s labels do not come close to describing her enormous love for others, her creativity, her joy. 

Too many people look just at the labels.  Or they look at the behaviors the labels describe, and they make judgements without expanding their knowledge of the actual person wearing the label.    There was a strong reaction in the special needs community recently to some  negative reviews of the film Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, a story about a nine-year old boy whose father perishes in the 9/11 collapse of the World Trade Center.  Although the book on which the film is based and the film itself never specifically say so, the character displays many behavioral traits that indicate a spectrum disorder – odd speech patterns and tone, difficulty with social interactions, extreme sensory reactions. 

The review that received the most negative response was from David Germain, movie writer for the Associated Press.  His review appeared December 19 at SFGate.com, the online home of the San Francisco Chronicle.  You can read the full article here, but the salient points are the following direct quotes:

”Newcomer Thomas Horn…is a mixed bag, holding his own among the adult actors, but, through no fault of his own, forced to behave with excessive shrillness much of the time.

That’s because his character, Oskar Schell, may or may not have Asperger’s syndrome, a mild form of autism (his medical tests, we’re told, were inconclusive).  You make allowances in life for people you encounter with autism, but spending two hours with a fictional character possessing autistic qualities can be grating.”

And those are the kind of people I dread my kids encountering.  The people who can handle special needs for a few minutes, but lack the compassion or the inclination to “see through” behaviors to the kid inside.  The kind of people who can’t spare five minutes to try and comprehend that a person is more than the rhythm of speech they employ or the pitch and tone of their voice.  

How much of a self-absorbed narcissist do you have to be to find the struggle of a child who has just lost his parent irritating because he doesn’t happen to sound right when he’s speaking?  How little humanity do you have to have left in you to NOT find this kind of story compelling?

Does it take some patience to look past my children’s behaviors?  Often, yes.  But you know what?  It takes patience to be a human being.  Whether you are dealing with people who are differently abled, who have mental health or neurological disorders, who are ill with a terminal or debilitating disease, you ought to be able to have a little patience.  You have to have a little patience to drive through a toll booth or wait in a line at the grocery store.  You need a little patience to cope with an aging parent who isn’t at his best now, but who is still a person you love deeply.  You need patience to try and go anywhere with an absent-minded spouse who can’t find her keys, her coffee cup, her cell phone.  You need patience to make it through a work day with people who are crabby or uncooperative, who didn’t do the things that you asked them to or who made a mistake that cost you time and money.

So even if we end up with another label tomorrow, it won’t change who my son is.  It won’t change the love and respect I have for him.  It won’t change anything but the ways in which we try to help him succeed.  Lets have a little patience for my boy.  Let’s look past his labels to his bright mind and unquenchable spirit.  Lets do that for every child, neurotypical or not, able-bodied or not.  Do it for me.  Do it for you.  For all of us, lest we lose our humanity.

Today's post brought to you by the wonders of cold medicine

I shudder to think of what I'd feel like right now without the bubbly goodness of Alka Seltzer Plus cold medicing roiling through my tired veins.  Even on the sauce, my nose is running, I"m sneezing like someone's sick idea of a cartoon joke and every time I blow my nose, the goop in my left nostril tries to exit via my eyelid.

I managed to make it to work, though.  I'm sure my coworkers appreciate the plague I'm spreading via every doorknob.

Image courtesy of  US National Library of Medicine

Once when I was in high school I had a sinus infection that spread into my eyes.  It wasn't pinkeye, it was a sinus infection, and every time I would blink my right eye, a think film of yellowish-green goo would spread itself over my eyelid, almost completely obscuring my vision.  So attractive.

In a way, I'm grateful for the fuzzy wooziness of my brain right now.  It provides an insulating blanket between me and life. 

I just managed to get a new evaluation appointment set up for my little guy with a psychiatrist in a couple of weeks.   That's unheard of around here, this doctor and most of the others have a 3 month wait for new patients, but we managed to call right after somebody cancelled so we got lucky.  Lucky is a rather dubious term, but lucky it is, to get in before the end of year while our deductibles are all met, lucky to see the doctor who already knows him because he treats my daughter too, lucky to have a teacher who communicates so well on what she sees in the classroom so that there's no disconnect between what we think is going on and what is actually happening during the school day.  He's still struggling.  He's in the right place, no doubt, but still struggling.  And the teacher is kind of surprised that he doesn't have a certain diagnosis, because behaviorally he is so similar to the other kids in her class that have that particular issue.   I had ruled it out before because there were a couple of symptoms that didn't seem to be a match, but looking at it more than a year later with kindergarten behind us and current behaviors in our face, I'm shocked it didn't stand out for me before now. 

I don't want to put it out here yet, because with kids a lot of issues that might seem like one thing can actually be something else.  So I'm going to try to just be patient and open-minded and see what the eval results tell us, then we go forward from there. 

All I really care about, ultimately, is that we know enough to provide him the right kind of  support.  It doesn't matter whether he has diagnosis A, B or C -- it is what it is, all that changes is how we help him cope.

I spent the obligatory hour on the phone with three different people at the insurance company yesterday, only to end up with a referral to a psychiatrist who, as it turns out, doesn't actually do pediatrics.  But that landed us with the resident psych at the center who does, and we already know him, so that should be good, right?    Still, its frustrating.  We're also being assigned to a dedicated team by the insurance company who are supposed to provide me with as many local resources as they can find for me within a week. 

Fortunately, my wine rack is well stocked right now, its a Friday night,  and the kids are at their dad's for a few days.  I have some time for a pity-party before I need to lift my chin up and buckle my seat belt.  Of course, with the cold medicine I'm not really sure I'll need the wine, and with a clogged schnozz I probably wouldn't enjoy it anway. 

 

 

This smile

Last year it was not uncommon for me to answer my cell phone in the middle of meetings or to pick up my deskphone even when I was eyeballs-deep in the middle of monthend accruals.  Last year was so hard, those first months of school, when it seemed like at least every other day I had to get back in my car, abandon whatever I was in the middle of, and go rescue my son - who could not cope with school. 

The nurse at his school was his safe person.  If his teacher absolutely could not deal with him or he was having too hard a time, they would take him to the nurse's office and she would talk to him if she could, soothe him as much as possible, and if she thought he needed to hear mom's loving voice or needed to go home, she would call me.  She was such a big help to me last year, and she was so dedicated to my son.  She really made a big difference to us, and when he moved schools this year she was one of the people I felt a twinge of regret about, because she really does care for him and I hated that he was losing that connection.

Yesterday I was in the middle of a meeting with one of the floor supervisors at work, problem solving and information-gathering, and my cell phone rang.  For the first time in a long time - possibly the first time this school year - I answered my cell phone because it was from the school district number. 

It was our nurse from last year.

She was at my kids' new school substituting for that school's nurse and she had gotten to see my son.  The reason she was calling was...

...to absolutely rave about how mature and calm and happy he was and how delighted she was to get to talk to him. 

I am flooded with emotion.

Gratitude for teachers and staff who genuinely love my children and care about their interests and needs. 

Fierce pride in my son.

Love. Joy. Hope. Anticipation.

Its one of those moments that more than makes up for the times when we struggle, when things go wrong, when its hard to just take any more steps forward.  This is the kind of moment that recharges the batteries and makes everything seem possible.

The smile on my face will last for days.

 

Dang, its loud in here

For most of the weekend it was very quiet around here.  I did the kind of things I might do if I didn't have children - I grocery shopped and didn't have to stop any fights or remind anyone a thousand times a thousand times a thousand times that I was not buying them a toy.  I went to church and didn't have to go running to the back even once because I heard screaming.  I had dinner with my parents and was able to hold an entire conversation with my parents without interruption.  I watched a movie and drank a glass of wine with my swollen ankle up on a pillow.  I made breakfast for one.

It was so peaceful, and yet...

I picked them up from their dad and they weren't here thirty seconds when I breathed a sigh of relief.  The missing piece.  NOISE.

Photo credit:  Michael Barnes 2011

Their lack of ability to modulate is both maddening and delightful.  Whatever they are feeling, they feel it at full throttle.  Sometimes its hard to distinguish playing from oh-dear-god-someone's-bleeding-to-death-in-there.  When they're happy, they scream.  When they're angry, they scream.  Sometimes my son will spontaneously start screeching at the top of his lungs while he plays with his cars - and its a toss up whether he's suddenly decided his jeans are going sideways oh mah gah sensory issues!  or he's pretending the steam engine is blowing its whistle at the station. 

Photo credit:  Michael Barnes, 2011

I worry sometimes that I've become a little too accustomed to the melodrama playing out around me.  I don't routinely get up to check and see if someone's accidentally sliced a hand off anymore.  I don't automatically stop them from swinging at each other.  I don't assume the worst when I hear them scream.  I just think to myself, "Dang, that's loud."  And I go about my business until or unless it becomes apparent that the noise stems from something requiring intervention.

Right now they are throwing paper airplanes in the air and then throwing themselves onto the couch with a loud "heeeeeeyaaaaah!"  followed by the loud thump of a small body on brown leather.  I just shake my head and smile. 

Solitary dinner and a quiet glass of wine is nice, sure, but this?  This is living.

Earplugs. Or something.

Honestly, I don't know why we don't see more stories in the newspaper about parents with oppositional children driving their cars straight into brick walls or off of the sides of overpasses.   And I confess to having a burning curiosity as to how so many oppositional children manage to survive to adulthood.  And even as I write this I have to kind of laugh, because after this long, my coping skills have developed to levels I never imagined were possible.

My son, God bless him, is simultaneously one of the most charming and one of the most maddening people I know.  He has been at his new school for just over a month now.  He knows the name of everyone in the school.  I pick him up and no matter which crossing guard is waving us across the pavement to safety, he knows her name.  He smiles at her, waves at her, enthusiastically shouting, "Hi Mrs. So-and-So!"  And they all smile right back at him.  "Hi Mr. Race Car Man!"  They love him.  And he IS lovable.  So charming.  About two days after his birthday party he came up to me in the kitchen and wrapped his arms around me. 

 "Mommy, when is your birthday?" 

"Just after Christmas.  Why?"

"Because you made such a special birthday for me. I want to make you the bestest car in the world for your birthday."

Melting.  I'm melting.  He is so adorable when he does this.

He remembers people's names, he remembers the smallest details about everything.  His brain is fascinating to me, and I know I've only scratched the surface of what he's capable of understanding and doing.  As a kindergartner, he rarely participated in learning activities in his classroom.  He was mostly curled up in a ball on the floor, not coping.  Yet he passed the end of year testing with perfect scores.  Of course, they only test them to their grade level, so that's not so amazing.  What was amazing was that his aftercare provider, on days when he'd been naughty, made him sit in her office and do math and reading books during recess.  "Just for fun" (or so she says), she gave him the first and second grade math tests.  He scored perfectly on first grade math and about 80% on second grade math.  As a kindergartner with little to no math instruction whatsoever.   I tell people that this is the child who will eventually be building nuclear bombs in the basement if his abilities are not channeled very carefully.   SG wanted to get him a chemistry set for his birthday.  My response was "Please, no, I like my house without the burn marks on the walls and carpet."

 And then there are the days (or the segments of a day) when things just get borked. 

Now that my daughter is doing "real" homework, I've become weary of being her walking thesaurus.  We went to the bookstore yesterday afternoon and she is now the proud owner of a thesaurus, a dictionary, and a children's encyclopedia.  I showed her how to look up words in the index of the thesaurus to find what pages to look on, and she was off and running.  But bookstores - places I used to love, places I used to be able to hang out in for hours - are my nemesis anymore.  If only they would just carry BOOKS.  But no, they've got toys now, almost as many toys as they have books, it seems.  Brilliant marketing tool, people.  Oh, and BITE ME.   While I searched for materials for his sister, the little man played at the train table in the kids section and then with the muppet puppets in the puppet theatre (it sells for just $89.99, folks, and if you buy it they throw in a free puppet.  Neato Frito. )  But when it was time to check out, he was standing there holding a box of train pieces. 

"Mommy, can I have this?"

"Not today buddy.  We're not here to pick out toys."

And let the screaming begin.

Would it hurt to buy my kids a toy sometimes?  Maybe not.  But unfortunately we did that a few years ago and somehow it took hold in their minds that they should get a new toy everytime they go to the store.

"But I was GOOD!"  he shouts at me.

"Yes, you were good.  That doesn't mean I'm buying you a toy."

I finish paying, I ask the kids to get in the car.

"NO!!!! I want this train!!!"

I'm not going to let him stand there disrupting anyone else's day one second longer than I have to.

"OK, here's the deal.  You have to three to put the box down and walk to the car.  If you don't, if I have to take the box from you and carry you to the car, you will lose the chance to watch television after homework.  No Mighty Machines."

"NO!!!!!"  he screams.

I count.  He does not comply. 

I very calmly take the box from him, calmly pick up his taut, struggling body, and carry him to the car, put him in his booster, buckle him in.  He is screaming at the top of his lungs.

I get in the car, put on my seatbelt, turn on the CD player.  "Daydreamer" by Adele.  Though I can barely hear the song through his shrieking, I focus very intently on the words so that I will think about something other than his piercing yells.

He kicks my seat and screams almost all the way home.  I manage not to drive off the overpass, slam into a concrete divider or drive us off a cliff.  I manage not to scream back at him.  But finally I cannot take anymore of the screaming.  I don't want to engage and I don't want to be upset, I am working so very hard at maintaining my composure.

"Buddy, you need to stop the screaming.  If you can't stop screaming you're going to have to stay in your room when we get home."

He yells at me for a few minutes more, but then finally his shrieks turn to quiet sobs.  Eventually he stops.  He picks up the encyclopedia I bought for his sister and starts to read it.

Some might classify this as a colossal failure.  I think it was a screaming success. 

Sorry for the pun.  I couldn't help myself.

My son lost his cool, but I didn't lose mine.  Where in the past he might have screamed for an hour or longer, he screamed for about twenty minutes.  See, in special-needs-land, we measure success incrementally. 

Even so, there are still times when driving off the overpass seems like a reasonable alternative.

 

Alpha Female

Having big dogs definitely comes with challenges.

They eat more.  They knock things over.  Medications and surgeries cost more.  They have more hair to shed all over your house and your clothes.  They can reach food on the counter far too easily.

However, there are a lot of things I really like about having big dogs.  They can be intimidating to strangers.  No one in their right mind is going to enter my home uninvited.  They are substantial enough that when I'm lonely and I really need someone to hug, they will suffice quite adequately if no human is available. 

And lets get right to it:  There is something empowering about looking your 95-pound Rottie mix in the eye and saying in a slightly sinister tone, "Down."  And watching him hit the floor in abject submission to your authority.

*****

Today my daughter is officially transferred to C's school. 

Logistically, having kids in two different schools that begin and end at the same time, is a nightmare.  You are practically forced into a situation where you must pay aftercare costs for at least one of them on the days that you are actually available to pick them up from school.  And if you get delayed picking one of them up because of traffic, there is nothing that compensates for the trauma of a child who thinks they've been forgotten.

Add to that the extra half hour morning and evening that stopping at two different before/aftercare centers adds to my commute thereby turning what should be two hours into the car into three...its just not that workable.  Its not that it can't be done -- its that I don't want to do it.

I went to C's school last Monday to see about requesting the transfer.  I had taken vacation days and was doing yard/house stuff, so of course I was dressed casually.  Capri's, an old t-shirt, flip-flops.  No makeup.  To my credit, I did wear deodorant and I had brushed my teeth.  No, really.  I asked the secretary about the transfer and she said I would need to talk to the principal.

The principal at our old school was so approachable, so friendly.  She was also efficient and clearly in charge, but she would smile and ask how you were, inquire about how things were in a sincere way.  I always felt she was really invested in the success of all of the students at the school. 

Hence my shattered expectations.

I sat and waited, because I didn't have an appointment and because it being the second week of school, things are naturally busy.  I didn't mind waiting. 

She swept out of her office in her three-inch high heels, her expensive and form-fitted dress, her clearly gym-sculpted figure, her dark tank, immaculate nails, perfect makeup and sculpted hairdo.  The secretary pointed her out to me, she made eye contact with me - and did not smile.  She indicated the paperwork that I would need to fill out and advised me she was not making any decisions on transfer for several days as she needed to see how many new students she had and how much room there were in classes.  Her tone of voice clearly implied "I don't wish to tell you yes.  I am the Person In Charge here, understand?"  OK, fine.  I smiled at her in a friendly way:  nothing.

Over the course of the week there was a little back and forth - special services wouldn't recommend that A ride C's bus, and of course with his aftercare outside of the boundaries for both schools, it wouldn't be workable for the transfer, so the transfer was initially denied. 

Never understimate the willpower of a special needs mom.

After a morning well-spent on the phone with both the special needs director and the transportation office, the transportation director agreed that A could ride the bus with her brother.  Keep in mind, we're not displacing anyone.  There are four or five children on this bus, and its a full-size bus.  We're not adding any extra stop- or drop-offs.  Logistically, its pretty much a wash. 

So after I talk with the transportation group, I get a call from the principal.

"I understand you've spoken with the transportation department."

"That's correct."

Coolly I am informed that based on their agreement to transport her, my daughter can transfer to my son's school and start the following Monday - today.  Awesome! 

"Thank you so much, I really appreciate your help."

What do people normally say when thanked?  What, it's not, "I must advise you that if the special services bus were to become full then your daughter would be unable to ride it and would need to transfer back to _______ .  Do you understand this?"   Whatever happened to saying "You're welcome?"

Dang.   Its easy to recognize an alpha female, but rarely have I met any human being, alpha or not, that I couldn't establish a rapport with.  Clearly my skills need honing.

Now I know all the special needs moms - and probably most of the moms of school aged kids - understand that your school staff are your most important and valuable allies when it comes to getting needs met and things done.  I couldn't have survived the last few years without the help of the secretaries and the school nurse and our wonderful, lovely teachers - and of course, our principal.

All I need to do is to get her to crack a smile.  Just one genuine smile. 

I have my work cut out for me.

 

Mutation!

I remember when I was trying to get pregnant many years ago, and I read several articles that encouraged me to increase my intake of folic acid.  Folic Acid, or Vitamin B9, is an essential compound that our bodies use to synthesisze and repair DNA, grow babies and produce healthy red blood cells, among other things. Folic Acid is not only good for you but it is a necessary compound for health and life.

The finished product that our bodies create from Folate is an enzyme called methylenetetrahydrofolate reductase,(Say THAT ten times fast!) and the gene that provides the instructions for processing the folate is also called methylenetetrahydrofolate reductas (NAD(P)H).  I just call it the "motherfucker" gene because its official symbol - MTHFR - begs me to do so. 

When the MTHFR gene is functioning properly, all is well.  When it's not, all hell breaks loose. 

Mutations in the MTHFR gene cause problems like homocystinuria, anencephaly and spina bifida. ( I have a mild form of spina bifida known as spina bifida occulta.  Basically, this means I have a hole in one of my lower vertebra, but there is no compromise to the spinal cord.)  Pregnant women with mutations in the MTHFR gene have difficulty carrying pregnancies to term.  

Researchers have discovered that two particular polymorphisms of the MTHFR gene (C677T and A1298C) are associated with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and depression.  Sources here and here.  These mutations which prevent the body from taking up and processing the folate into the final enzyme, seem to have an effect on mood and brain function.

This is relevant to me and my kids in so many ways.  I haven't had the blood test done to determine if I have one or both of the mutations - but I would say that my own bipolar illness and spina bifida occulta are evidential.  My kids' other parent has been tested.  And my son has been tested. 

Getting our pediatrician to test him was a challenge. When I broached the subject he had never even heardof the MTHFR gene issue.  I think he thought (as I'm sure he often does) that I'm off my rocker.  To his credit, he did the research, and agreed to request the blood test.  When the results indicated that he has one of the gene mutations I was not in the least surprised.  However, our doctor was unconvinced that he needed to have the medication that is usually prescribed for this, a concentrated form of L-methylfolate. 

At our appointment this week, reviewing the rating scales we always fill out, he suggested a change in the ADD meds.  I countered with a request that we consider trying the L-methylfolate.  And he agreed.

L-methylfolate in high dosages depletes B-12 in the body as the methylation process utilizes B-12 as a coenzyme.  Once B-12 is depleted, the folate gets stuck and then the supplement becomes less effective.  Even worse, B-12 deficiency causes other problems like pernicious anemia, which untreated can become fatal.  B-12 absorbs poorly via the stomach, so only B-12 shots or sub-lingual B-12 supplements are recommended.

Do I think this will work?  I'm cautiously optimistic.  I know at least two people who started taking L-methylfolate and successfully control their bipolar disorder without the addition of any other prescription medication.  I'm not excited about introducing two new pills to a child who pretty much refuses to take pills, but we'll cope. We always have.

Cross your fingers for us.