Barnmaven

Limping down the aisle

So.

There's been a lot going on around here.  The stuff in my life and the stuff in my head have resisted my best attempts to write about them, and its frustrating.  Hopefully this post breaks the dam and I can wax eloquent more frequently about things that I often think really mean little to anyone but me - but you keep showing up to read, so what do I know?  I'm just an old broad.

Before SG hit the road in September we talked about our future together and the obvious answer was some planning towards wedding bells the following summer.  Then his start/end/start/end dates for the jobs he was going to do changed - more than once - and planning something became rather problematic.  Then he suggesting meeting in Vegas over the winter, which frankly when you're my age and haven't been qualified to wear a white wedding dress in quite some time seemed like a perfectly reasonable option.  Then the discussion of how to include loved ones came up, and then we started talking about a quick affair in between the September and November jobs.  That's where we were when he left, and I was keeping myself occupied in his absence by thinking of wedding plans, then calling him to see what he thought of this idea or that.

At some point in October, I honestly can't remember when, things got a little haywire.  Distance, weariness, job stress and myriad other things put downward pressure on us.  Someone might have gotten grumpy and uncommunicative.  Of course, that someone might not also have been feeling his best, working 12 hour days and living off restaurant and microwave food.  Seasonal depression, which is a guaranteed annual event, had its way with both of us.  Trying to plan became a chore, a point of contention, an added stress.  We wobbled.   Wedding plans were put on hold - not cancelled, but definitely not on the plate for this year -  we agreed to just table the discussion until he was home.  

We spent the rest of our daily conversations being loving and supportive and counting the days until we could be in the same zip code.

He got back last Tuesday.  We spent two days remembering the thousand things that are so amazing about being together - the ease of things, the chemistry, the deep discussions and the delight of companionship.  We cooked and ate and held hands and smelled each other's skin.  We touched and hugged and crawled under the covers, emerging for water and air now and again.  Thursday we took the lid off the marriage discussion.  We talked and talked about where we are and where we want to go and what we might want to do about that.  And then we drove down to the courthouse and got ourselves a marriage license. 

It will be a small, casual affair with a few family members and friends.  But even so, its amazing all the things that need to be done if you are doing more than eloping over the border to the Chapel of Love in Couer d'Alene.  Most of that is my mother at work, insisting there be flowers and hors d'ouvres and proper champagne glasses.  Hell, I just wanted to find a dress I liked.  I did, too -- and when the final choice fell between "bridal" and "hot" - trust me, I chose HOT.  When you're 45 years old and you find a dress that makes you look hot, you buy it. 

So I'm all set with a beautiful blue dress and a kickass pair of low black pumps.  But you know, me being me, things just can't go that smoothly.

With someone warming the other side of the bed, getting up to run has felt like less and less a priority the last week.  I managed to run on Wednesday and meant to do it on Friday and then on Sunday, but it just didn't happen.  So this morning, I doggedly set the alarm for black-as-night-thirty and dutifully put on my running shoes and vest and threw a leash on T-Bone when it blasted me out of a lovely dream.

We hadn't gone very far when I realized my selected route was much darker than I had anticipated.  I thought there were more street lights along that way, but clearly I have questionable accuracy when it comes to memory.  And about a half mile in as I was considering the need to turn around and find a more well-lit path, it happened.  I tripped over the concrete edge of a square manhole cover and fell, wrenching the holy living crap out of my left ankle in the process.  I managed to crawl up onto the curb and suppress my moans so as not to wake people in nearby houses.  T-Bone, bless his heart, sat as close to me as he could, then curled up on the ground, watching every car that passed with a concerned glare.  When I could talk without sobbing I called SG (always, always always take a phone with you when you run) and asked him to come get me.  Then I passed the time until he got there mentally beating myself up for being so damn stupid and possibly ruining my ability to even walk on our wedding day, much less finish my C25K training plans.

Fortunately its just a bad sprain.  My plan is to keep it elevated and iced until about 2:45PM on Wednesday so I can put a flesh-colored elastic brace on it under an opaque pair of panty hose and actually wear my new black pumps and walk on the damn thing.  I have every confidence that this plan will work and I will not hear a word to the contrary. 

We can have the sidebar discussion on just how much crutches suck later.  If I have to talk about it now I may just weep, and that's not in the cards today.  I refuse to be down about this.  It hurts and it looks like hell, but its a small radar blip in what is otherwise a joyous and bliss-filled week. 

So if you have positive thoughts, prayers or energy to send our way, we'll take all of them you can spare. 

When I'm the one who needs a time out

It was a tough day for parenting yesterday.  C decided to replace the batteries in an old truck toy.   After he put the new batteries in and screwed the battery compartment shut, his expectations of working sounds and lights were unmet, and he started to escalate.  He'd forgotten that the truck hadn't worked right for quite a while after having been left outside in the rain for an extended time.   After an hour or so of screaming and throwing things, he finally accepted that the truck was Not Working Right, and so decided that his next step would be to take it apart and try to understand why.  Except that one of the screws on the bottom was stripped and neither he or I could get it out.  More escalation.  More screaming, throwing things, kicking things.  I'd been coping with this while trying to catch up on an enormous amount of housework and my patience was starting to wear dangerously thin.  I asked him for the truck.  Told him it needed to get put away for a while so it didn't frustrate him so much, and we needed to find something else for him to do.  "NO!!!!!!"  More screaming...and I just popped.  I grabbed the truck from his hands and I yelled and I threw the damn thing into the other room.  I never wanted to see it again, I wanted it to go away, wanted the screaming to just STOP. 

The truck landed on the floor and promptly separated into two complete halves.

Oops.

This is one of those times when walking away would have been the wiser choice.  Instead I showed my son how NOT to handle your stress.  I did exactly what he was doing and then some.

It does not in the least detract from the wrongness of my actions that within 10 minutes he was happily checking out the control board and the wiring and putting the top half back on and taking it back off and trying to see how the connections all worked. 

 

I work so hard to try and keep myself calm and listening when my kids are having a hard time.  I know that even if it takes a little while to ask questions calmly and listen carefully to what the need is, it takes a lot less time than it would if I simply added to the emotion and stress of the moment by trying to impose my will.  I have those days, I really do.  But then there are days that are so full of parental fail that all I can do is say "I'm sorry" and "I'll try better next time," and hope that I haven't scarred my son for life.

Yesterday was not a shining example of quality parenting by yours truly.  Today, however, is bound to be a big improvement.  They stay with their dad tonight.

For the sake of posterity

Because this might never, ever happen again:

Never in a million years. 

 

 

And because the picture's fuzzy, that's my post.  Linked under Lifestyle news on the FRONT PAGE OF MSNBC.  Holy crap.  Pardon me while I go have a moment....

I really screwed up

I injected what I think was a note of sarcastic humor into yesterdays post.  At the time I was reeling, and trying to make it at least a little funny was my own way of coping with what was happening around me.

I also didn't want to post too many details, because at the time I thought the reason the sitter was jailed was because of something far more innocent than the real reason she was in jail.  Today I learned why she had been arrested, and let me tell you, when I learned why, my blood ran cold.

Let's start at the beginning. My sitter was last employed by a family in my town as a full time nanny for their two children, the older of which has autism and needed a caregiver experienced in special needs.  According to testimony and news stories, not too long after she started working for this family, the mother confessed to her that she wanted to kill her husband and run away to Mexico.  Some weeks after this confession, the sitter realized that the woman was actually serious and informed the husband, who then involved the police.  The police involved the sitter in a sting operation whereby the wife thought the sitter was helping her to obtain drugs to help her in her endeavor, but which were not really drugs and the whole pass-off was videotaped and wiretapped.

The wife was arrested and charged.

Six weeks after this, the husband fired the sitter and obtained a restraining order against her, claiming that he thought she was trying to take the children and was giving them drugs.  The sitter responded with a restraining order in return, things got all weird and sordid.  The wife eventually took a plea deal to lesser charges and was released from prison with credit for time served.  A month ago, the sitter filed a lawsuit against the couple in civil court for damages related to defamation of character, etc.

The police have never charged the sitter with any crime, though they thoroughly investigated her.

Because the sitter was never charged with anything, my background check which included a search of all felony arrests or warrants, turned up NOTHING.  A misdemeanor from when her daughter was a teen and stole her car, where the sitter claimed that she had let the child drive in order to keep her out of trouble, but she had told me about that in the interview.  In fact, it was comforting to me to see that she was so truthful she had owned up to the ONLY thing that came up on the background check when I ran it after the interview.

Had I run a simple search engine lookup on her name, I would have learned the details of the family she had worked for before.  In all likelihood, I would not have hired her.  Not because I thought she had done something wrong, but because there were active restraining orders and ongoing court cases and I don't need my children in any way involved with someone who is a tad notorious, even superficially.

Instead, I trusted her, gave her a key to my home.  Allowed her to pick up my children from school.  Take them to the library and the park and to her house for macaroni and cheese.

What I did not know:

This woman was in an ongoing battle with some long term acquaintances.  Over the weekend she told police the women had attacked her.  An investigation ensued, and no evidence could be found that such an attack had taken place.  What the police were able to find, though, was damning evidence that my sitter was engaging in a threat campaign against these women via text, email and voicemail, leaving them threats.  Serious threats, including a threat to "beat one victim to a bloody pulp with a bat" until she was dead.

Yesterday, after learning she was jailed, I went home early and had my locks changed.  I assumed, offhand, that she had been arrested for mistakenly violating a restraining order.  I thought I might be overreacting, but I wanted to make sure I took steps to keep my family safe.  After learning of the details of her arrest, I am glad I took those steps.  

I am horrified, reeling, unsettled, shocked.  At any point my children could have been harmed by this apparently unstable woman.  I don't know the details of the feud with the other women involved, but heaven forbid one of them was retaliatory toward my sitter AND MY CHILDREN WERE WITH HER.  Or if she had been arrested this week any day but the day I work from home, and my children had been present.  My mind keeps going over and over all of the details, fragments of conversations, thoughts, observations.  In no way did this woman seem to be the kind of person that would leave someone violent threats.  If anything, she just seemed a little too nice and possibly even naive.  I was completely mistaken about her character and the reality of what was going on in her private life.

Lessons?  Many.

Background checks are NOT enough.  An interview is not sufficient.  There are many good unlicensed people out there providing childcare.  I was unlucky enough to find one of the few who was a high risk.  There was nothing in her manner or words or ANYTHING to indicate she was a potential danger.

I'm not even upset about needing to find yet another caregiver for my children.  I'm grateful instead, grateful that my children were not harmed.  Perhaps they were never really in danger, but in my opinion we dodged a bullet on this one.  Things that could have gone wrong didn't.

Ultimately, I count myself at fault.  It is my job to protect my kids.  To be thorough in researching the people who are providing their care.  I didn't do that.  If my kids were in danger, they were in danger because I didn't do my job.  I'm incredibly thankful that the cost of learning this lesson wasn't as high as it could have been.

Impulse

Round Peg?

I'm the first person to admit that I have a problem with impulsivity.  If I ever stick my toe in the dating pool again, I'd really like to meet someone who sees this in an optimistic, "isn't that cute" kind of way.  I've been told in the past that my impulsive nature makes me a horrible person to live with.  Its not that I try to bring home animals or make life-altering decisions...its more often that I can't seem to help myself. 

Eleven years ago after knowing J for four months, I sold nearly everything I owned, stuffed the rest into a U-Haul trailer and moved from Washington State to New Jersey.  Impulse, much?  And we can all see how well *that* turned out.  Three years ago, with a newly acquired bit of land, I bought the first horse I looked at.  Because she reminded me of another horse I used to have.  She couldn't be ridden yet, and she didn't like to be handled.  I've spent a lot of time and money since then trying to get her to be a trail horse, since that's really all I do anymore is trail ride.  My other horse, Zenon, is 20 now.  He's still fresh as a daisy after a five mile ride, thanks to his Arabian ancestry, and he's Mr. Dependable.  He's surefooted and a lot of fun to take places.  Miss B, on the other hand, while she's much younger and has a beautiful trot you could ride all day, is sadly not suited to trail riding.  She's quick as a cat, explosive, and reactive.  Twice this year I've been dumped by her, not on purpose but because a branch or a tumbleweed poked her and she just exploded sideways.  Being dumped on the trail is not only no fun, its dangerous.   I've kept trying with her, for many reasons, but ultimately I have to accept that she is not the right horse for the job I want her to do.  Worse, she's dangerous because I'm putting her in situations that she can't quite handle, and I don't' have the luxury of continually putting myself at risk of injury.  In the end, its not fair to either one of us.  I love her dearly, and I give a lot of credit to her, to our trainers Bill and Angie, and to myself even, for how far she has come from what she was when I brought her home.  She went from being a horse who was afraid, concerned and upset when being handled, to a horse who would walk up to you in the pasture and stick her nose in the halter.  But she's still a square peg, and I need to stop trying to shove her in the round hole.  She would be happier doing something she's better suited to - reining, possibly, or barrels.  With her speed and quick reflexes, she might make a decent cutting horse.  Who knows?

Michelle is my trail buddy.  We've gone trail riding together every Saturday this year, with only one exception.  She has been so good to me, coming by with her trailer to pick up me and my horse and bringing us back.  I'm lucky where I live in that I can go right down the street and ride for quite a way along the river, and I can head up the street and hit some of the open land north and west of town, but that's about all I can do from here and I'm not a big fan of trail riding in the city.  I like to get out of town where all you can hear are the birds chirping and the hawks scree-ing and the views are spectacular.  And riding alone, while occasionally good for the soul (or a great place to have a really decent cry when life gets a little too much) gets boring after a while.  Without Michelle, my riding life would look a whole lot different than it has lately and I am grateful beyond words for her generous spirit.  She loves to ride too, and I think its been as wonderful for her as it has been for me to have a friend to hit the trails with. 

Michelle and I have the same philosophy  on most things when it comes to horses.  We're both big believers in Natural Horsemanship, we like the same kind of big, stocky quarter horses, and we both have horses for the love of them and not to win ribbons or make money.  There are people in this world who make a living off of horses - but they are few and far between.  Michelle started breeding Quarter Horses years ago.  She has about 16 horses on her place, two stallions, a group of mares, "her" horse and then the few horses she is getting trained in hopes of finding them the right owner.  One of those horses is a big bay gelding called "Bugs."  That's his barn name - most registered horses have a name they're registered under  that you'd never want to call them in real life, and then they get a barn name, usually something short and simple, reflective of the horse's personality.  My second horse ever, a beautiful little buckskin mare, was "Norchas Super Fury" on paper, but to us she was just "Little Bit."  I'm not even sure what Bug's registered name is - I suppose I'll find out eventually.  Which is what I'm leading to with all this. 

Saturday when we were riding, Michelle brought Bugs along, and I, tired of hitting the ground so much, brought Zenon.  Somehow during the course of the conversation, we decided that I'm going to give Bugs a try, and so at the end of the ride, Michelle left him in my care and took Miss B home with her to go run around in an 11 acre pasture with the broodmares.  I feel a whole lot like its Christmas and my birthday all at the same time.  Its a rare opportunity, and I'm really overwhelmed and a bit verklempt over my friends generosity and willingness to not only trust me with her horse, but to take mine to her place.   If I do list her for sale, Michelle's place is a better place for her to be, since there's an arena and a round pen, and for someone to come look at her they can also ride her in a safe environment. 

This time I'm going to try not to be impulsive.  I'm going to really spend some time with this gelding and see if he's the right horse for me.  But its hard not to have a little bit of a crush on him - just look at him:

 
I hope he's my round peg.

Mommy doesn't do blood

Cuts, scrapes, stubbed toes - these I can handle.  I handle them well, in fact.  I am the Empress of Band-aids.  In my house, Band-Aids are the placebo for everything that goes wrong.  I mop up the blood, apply a little sticky-backed patch of Doctor Mommy Goodness and off they scamper, back outside to bust something else.  This blood is no problem.

All mommies are Superwoman.  And with few exceptions, all mommies have their kryptonite.

Mine?

Needles.

I am squirming in my seat just typing the damn word.  Needles give me heebie-jeebies of EPIC proportions.  But only medical needles.  Not tattoo needles.  Not sewing needles.  Just the kind of needles that the doctor or dentist uses to put UNDER YOUR SKIN or IN YOUR VEINS.  Omigod, I almost just passed out.

It started at a very tender age.  My childhood pediatrician hated me.  Poor Dr. Tucker, if I so much as thoughtI was going to get a shot or have my finger poked for blood, it took five people to hold me down.  By the time I was in my twenties, I had to caution every doctor I had to put me horizontal for bloodwork.  More than one doctor or phlebotomist insisted "Oh, no, its just a little draw, you'll be fine."  They found out the hard way that I was going horizontal, one way or the other.  Involuntarily works just as well, folks, except you risk injuring your patient.  I've fallen off more than one exam table.  Once I tried to donate blood, because my fireman father - who, incidentally has some kind of kooky award from the blood bank for donating something like 1,000 gallons in his lifetime - insisted that I was not a true American or a patriot or even a human being if I didn't donate blood.  So I donated once when the building I worked in was doing a blood drive.  I made it all the way through the procedure, then passed out in the elevator on the way back to my office, scaring the shit out of some poor man who was riding with me.  He thought I'd died.  (Dude, my fingers are going numb right now.  I can't even THINK about that day without my eyesight fading to black)

I thought pregnancy would cure me of my aversion.  Remarkably, for both of my pregnancies, I did OK with the blood draws and the IV's.  Anything for the baby, I supposed.  But the postpartum surgery I had after A was born quickly proved that my pregnancy-induced-tolerance was only a temporary phenomenon.  Remember how I posted a little bit ago about how its not really funny if the doctor gives you too many stitches in your perineal tear?  Yeah.  So I had to have surgery to correct that.  So I could, you know, GET LAID AGAIN SOMETIME IN MY LIFE.  And I went in, got all dressed for the prom in my open-backed butt-hanging-out hospital gown, reclined on the preop bed, and promptly passed out when they put in my IV.   Oh how I miss the days when anesthesia just meant they put a big mask on your face, you breathed in a few times, and you went down for a nice long nap.  No.  Now they want to stick needles in you.  JUST MY LUCK.

So the whole point of this post, the reason I'm telling you all about how big, tough, me is a total weenie when it comes to needles and blood, is that C had to have a blood test.  My secret, shameful parenting fail is that neither of my children has had basic bloodwork done.  EVER.  I can't do it.  I can't take them.  But C needed to have some blood tests done - long story short, it is likely that C has a double-gene mutation that, if he has it, would cause his body not only to not uptake Folic Acid but also not to process it into the end product that the body needs.  This condition also has some indications for people with anxiety disorders.  For those who take meds for their anxiety disorder, it can cause the meds to make them very nauseated, and mostly rendered them ineffective.   My poor little C has pretty bad anxiety disorder - likely genetic.  He's been having a very hard time lately.  Our pediatrician doesn't think he's going to survive kindergarten very well in his current state, and I concur.  So we want to try some low-level medication to see if he has good results.  Except if he has the gene mutation, medication won't really help.  So he needed a blood test to help find out if that's the case.

I just couldn't.  Could. Not. 

All the credit for getting that done goes to his dad.  And when he called me to let me know it had been done, I almost passed out in my chair as he described the event.  (I think he did it on purpose.  There has to be some way to get me back for the Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts that was our marriage). 

I won't be able to look at the band-aid on his arm without my knees going week and my stomach doing a little flip.  That's how bad I am.

My name is Mary and I'm a Weenie.