notes to the teacher

Dear High School Attendance Officer,

Thank you for your concern regarding Sasquatch and his tardiness issues. Despite the faint note of disbelief in your voice when you called me, I am well aware of the situation and am taking measures at home to ensure that he makes it to first period on time from here on out.


The first thing I have to do is buy a new dryer.


For reasons unknown to me, the child insists on starting a load of his laundry every school night at approximately 11 pm. Then, since he is falling asleep on his feet, he sets two alarms to wake him up early enough to put his clothes in the dryer before school. In the morning, he proceeds to sleep through both alarms, only waking up when I go into his room to ask why he isn't out of bed yet. If he is unable to talk me into going downstairs to put his clothes in the dryer, he drags himself out of bed and does it himself, grumbling loudly under his breath about uncooperative parents.


This is inevitably followed fifteen minutes later by the announcement that he is going to miss his bus because his clothes are still wet, followed immediately by him spewing abuse on the dryer for taking longer than a quarter of an hour to dry a "full load" - aka a pair of cargo pants, a pair of boxers and a t-shirt.


Just so you know how seriously I take these attendance issues, I thought you might like to follow along on a typical exchange.


Mom: Why can't you wear something else?
Sasquatch: Because these are the clothes I want to wear.


Mom: Why do you always wait so late to wash your clothes?
Sasquatch: It's okay, Mom. Don't worry about it.


Mom: Have you not figured out yet that this isn't working the way you want it to?
Sasquatch: Stupid dryer. It doesn't work. And stupid alarms. They never go off the way they're supposed to.


Mom: Your alarms went off fine. They woke up everyone in the house but you.
Sasquatch: No, they didn't. I would have heard them.


Repeat on a daily basis until one of you cracks.


I'm very sorry to involve you in our nightmare. Look at the bright side. The end of the school year is only two and a half months away.


I'm sure I'll be hearing from you again before then.


Sincerely,

Sasquatch's Mom

shades of grey

Sasquatch and I had to have a long discussion today about the concept of "black and white". He's sixteen and he's male, so I completely understand that he sees the world in a very cut and dried way. I'm not sixteen and I'm not male, and I've learned that more often than not, grey is the overriding hue in the world. Things aren't usually cut and dried, they aren't usually all good or all bad, all right or all wrong. Life can be murky, but I think the ability to understand that comes with experience. Today, he got some experience.



It's no secret that he is very angry with his father and has been since March. He barely talks to him, and has spent only a couple of nights at his father's new house. The other boys go and hang out, but not Sasquatch. He stays here or he goes to a friend's house. I've talked and talked - to both of them - and finally realized that there's only so much power I have. At this point it's up to them. I can't do it for them. I know the FX wants to make it right, but doesn't know how. I know Sasquatch thinks he could care less about his father, but I don't believe it for a second. I know the two of them are so similar it hurts, but neither one of them see it. I'd laugh, except that it isn't remotely funny.



Sasquatch did not want the FX to come here for Thanksgiving. He's been saying for weeks that it would ruin his holiday. At first I tried to reason with him, then I tried to appeal to his better instincts, and then, having no success with either of those, I just started ignoring him. It was already a done deal. This was very important to the other two boys. I was beginning to suspect that it was more important to the FX than I might have initially thought. I was okay with it. I'm in this for the long haul, and was looking at it as the first of many such situations that I have to look forward to in my life. It's not negotiable. We will have an amicible relationship for our children. Period.


This isn't to say that we'll spend all of our holidays together. Far from it. But this is the first one (second if you count Halloween, and we did that together too), and I think the younger boys felt really good having it to look forward to. Not Sasquatch. So this afternoon we had another come to jesus talk in the kitchen while I was peeling potatoes. He was not happy, still convinced that his father's presence would ruin his day. Doesn't he have anywhere else to go, he asked? Does he not realize that he gave up family holidays when he decided to leave his family? How could he show up at your house and expect you to be happy to see him after the way he treated you? Don't you see how awkward it's going to be with our other guests? Can't you just call him and tell him not to come?


Black and white. Black and white.


It was hard to even know where to start. Our other guests were my friend Stacey and her family, and we've celebrated lots of holidays and occasions together. She and her husband are grown-ups, and I knew there would be no angst caused by them, even though they have stayed "my" friends. Your father did not divorce the whole family, he divorced me. I'm sure there are plenty of other places he could go, but he'd like to come here. Do you have any idea, I asked, what it must be like to go from living here to living all alone most of the time? Do you not think he knows how angry you are, or how helpless he feels in dealing with it? Do you think you could even remotely consider that at some point in your life you may change your mind and want a relationship with your dad, and that maybe it's a bad idea to slam doors shut too fast?


And then I played my trump card. Listen, I said, it's been a really crazy year. But if you're doing this out of a sense of loyalty to me, you need to stop and consider something. I'm happier than I ever remember being. I feel bad even saying it, but this has been one of the best things that's ever happened to me. If you're angry at him for you, that's totally okay. But don't be angry at him for me. Because I'm not anymore. I'm genuinely, truly okay. Could you just go into it with an open mind?



He wasn't happy about it, but he did. And we had a lovely night - all around. Sure there were undercurrents, and sure there are awkward things with the transition into our new life. It's hard to sit across a table from someone in a position you've been in hundreds of times and all of a sudden go Wow, this is totally different. It's weird to entertain someone in a house they use to live in. It's strange to see vulnerability in a person who has created such upheaval in your life. It's bizarre to realize that you really are done, and even wilder to feel more peaceful about it by the day. But in the end, I looked at my smiling kids - all three of them - and did say my silent words of what I was thankful for this year. I'm thankful for two adults who continue to put their children first, no matter what. May it long continue.


When everyone had left, Sasquatch found me in the kitchen again and thanked me. You were right, he said, that was really nice. It all worked out great and Dad and the boys seemed really happy that he was here.


I noticed he didn't add himself into that, but he didn't need to. I may not be big on black and white, but I can read grey pretty well.

giving thanks

Ah, yes. Thanksgiving. It's tomorrow, right?


Like I'd forget. For some reason Thanksgiving is a favorite holiday around here, and not just because we all eat like garbage scows. I'm honestly not sure what the big appeal is, but since it's so hard to get a majority on anything in this house, I'll take it no matter what. It may be my last one until next Thanksgiving.



The food will be what it always is - pretty traditional stuff. Surfer Dude and I will do a bunch of stuff ahead of time today - just like we always do. I did all of my shopping last week to avoid getting caught in horrendous grocery lines, so I've got a second wind for the cooking. We're brining the turkey this year for the first time - cross your fingers. And we've got some friends coming over for dinner - which will make the day especially nice.


The elephant in the room, of course, is that this is our first post-divorce holiday. But in the continuing amiability that is my divorce, we've invited the FX to come and eat with us. This was very important to Gumby and Surfer Dude, so it's what we're doing. I've said all along that if we could get the kids through this relatively unscathed, then it would be very possible to have a happy ending. I'm sure it'll get weird, but what the hell. It can't get much weirder than the rest of the year has been.


One thing I think we'll need to do differently is going around the table and having everyone say one thing they're thankful for. That will probably be better avoided this year, because it could get pretty sticky. I'll say mine mentally, though. Because I know exactly what I'm grateful for this Thanksgiving.


I just don't think it would go over too well.

strike three

We've just gone another nine rounds, me and Sasquatch. Nine rounds of the same old shit, nine rounds of everything I do that is wrong and everything he does that is just a rational response to his crazy, melodramatic mother. The irony of him being downstairs bellowing "Oh, my god. OH, MY GOD could you be any more melodramatic?" is completely lost on him, as it usually is.


And what has prompted this? The attempts on my part to lay down some firm lines in terms of me not doing virtually everything around here. The two younger ones get it. But not my eldest. Not by a long shot. The palm that is extended for entertainment money is curiously unable to do any work for it. The mouth that inhales every speck of food I cook is curiously unable to say anything to me that is not hateful and cruel. The child who compulsively says he loves me every time he leaves my side is curiously unable to do a damned thing to prove it. Everything that is important to me is mocked, everything I do is taken for granted, everything I say is twisted until I don't even recognize it anymore. By the time we finish one of these arguments, he has me really believing that I'm as awful a person as he says I am. I don't know how much longer I can do this.


The fact that the two younger ones get it doesn't mean they actually do anything about it. It just means that they feel a little guilty that they're not doing anything about it. I've collared each of them individually and told them all to set aside some time on Saturday for a good, old-fashioned family meeting. Things cannot continue the way they are around here.


I think I'm about to go on strike.

thanks for clearing that up for me

My plan was to post something tonight, but I've been informed by my sixteen year old son that no one can understand anything I say - in any way, at any point or anyhow.


Well. I guess that takes care of that idea.

you're only young once

When I was a kid, back in the good old days, when you wanted to drive your parents crazy you blasted your stereo or your radio full blast. If they hated the music you were playing, so much the better. I have fond memories still of my perfectionist musician step-father clenching his teeth as I played the off-key Bay City Rollers at top volume. Oh, my god, did he hate the Bay City Rollers. (I couldn't fess up that I liked a lot of the same music he did. I had my pride). I'll admit that as teenage rebellion goes it was pretty stinkin' tame, but even so I knew it was a sure fire way to get his ire up. My teenage years were not what one might call "typical", and most avenues of traditional rebellion were of no use to me. I think it's safe to say that I've given my poor step-father a life- long tartan phobia and an irrational fear of S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y nights. My work here is done.


I thought of this the other day when I asked Sasquatch if I could look at his iPod to see if he had anything on it that I wanted to download onto my new one. You'd have thought I asked the kid to take off his underwear and hand them over. My wanting to check out his music was an intrusion to his privacy. His privacy. Does he not see that he has this totally backward? He's supposed to impose his questionable musical tastes on me just like I did to my parents at his age. It's a rite of passage, damn it. I'm supposed to be able to yell about high volumes and dodgy lyrics, and even say things like, " You call that music? It sounds like he has his hand caught in a carburetor."


Instead, I watched him slip in his earbuds and bob away to a beat heard only by him. Now where's the fun in that?

more boring psycho babble

I write about my mom a lot.


I write about my kids a lot.


I'd like to write about work more, but am always worried about it.


I write about my friends, my dogs, my life, my hopes, my dreams, food, the beach, things that irritate me and my views on the Midwest as a transplanted tree hugging, granola headed Left Coaster.


I've even been known to write a time or two about my ex.


I very rarely write about my dad. And that's really too bad, because god knows there's plenty of material there. Some good, some bad, some definitely open to interpretation...but lots of it. Obviously, I'm far from alone in having complicated relationships of the parental kind, so I'm not complaining exactly. I fully realize that I'm ahead of the game in that my mom and I get along so well. I just have a lot of unresolved issues with my dad that have been popping up in unexpected ways lately.


My mom left an interesting comment recently about it being a hard time around here due to some recent "death dates" and my dad's birthday passing by. That kind of got me thinking. His birthday was September 29, and that is such a loaded date for me that I was absolutely positive my divorce papers would come in the mail that day. Or be dated that day. Or in some way have something to do with that day. The symbolism would have been pitch perfect. I could give a lot of reasons for that - most of which wouldn't make much sense. But here's a brief stab at it:


I've had three long-term complicated relationships with men in my life. My dad, my ex and Sasquatch. (I don't know why Gumby and Surfer Dude don't feel complicated to me, but they don't. This isn't a slap at SQ, honest. I just think it's more a temperament thing). In the win-loss category, it's a toss-up. I think I lost with my dad (but to be fair, so did he), at first I chalked the FX up as a loss, but have since changed my mind, and I really think I'm winning with Sasquatch, inch by inch. And why do I continue to lump them together in this odd and disjointed way? Well, because old habits and patterns die hard. Because my eldest son is the spitting image of my dad in so many ways. Because I have a chance to change some things for the better. Because I married a man just like dear old dad, and what's worse I knew it at the time and what's even worse, I made jokes about it. For years.


Because I have to get past this. Bit by bit. And I'm going to drag you all along with me.

locusts

My mother made a pot roast for dinner tonight. A four pound pot roast cooked in the dutch oven on top of the stove, surrounded by whole potatoes, carrot pieces and an ocean of beef gravy. I made a chicken and gnochi stew with shitake mushrooms, carrots and broccoli. For Gumby, I made the chicken stew with fake chicken, hold the mushrooms. The idea was that we would have food for lunches and dinner for the next couple of potential hell days. The reality was different.


Sasquatch and Surfer Dude polished off an entire four pound pot roast in about ten minutes. My mother, who claimed she wasn't hungry and wanted to wait a while, never had a chance. I hear a lot of complaints that I never make roasts for them to destroy, and this was why. My locusts had arrived. The two of them hoarded beef for lunches tomorrow, while at the same time pointing fingers as to who had eaten the most food for dinner. It was ugly.


As soon as I realized what happened, I made the boys pony up their lunch beef for their poor starved Nana. She declined, half incredulous and half gratified at the power of grandma food. I wasn't incredulous or gratified. I just kept walking around saying, "It was a four pound pot roast. Four pounds." This is why I put mushrooms in everything I want to eat. Locusts don't like mushrooms. At least my locusts don't. It doesn't taste so good when it's brownies I'm hoarding, but at least I know they'll be left alone.


My mom is now eating a bowl of my chicken and mushroom stew, and, fueled by a little pre-debate wine, looks up at me periodically and says, "They really ate the whole thing?"


I raise my own glass as I nod that yes, they did indeed eat the whole beefy thing.


Thank god for shitake mushrooms. I won't starve this week.

guarded by sasquatch?

So there I was at the supermarket after work. I needed stuff for kid's lunches on Monday, and since I'd picked up hours today at the last minute, I hadn't done my big weekly shop like I normally do. I'm working Sunday, too, so it was now or never. My bags full of granola bars and sliced turkey and applesauce, I was heading for the exit.


And who did I run into? One of my very favorite recent patients.


And I was in my scrubs.


A block from my house.


On a night when the boys are with their dad.


And I was supposed to be home alone.


I was not a happy camper.


Until Sasquatch called and said that his sleepover had fallen through.


And that he was on his way home.


Whew. I may sleep tonight after all.


Not that I'd ever let him know that.

department of redundancy department

There's a lot of stuff on my mind from the last few days, but for now I have to toss an offering into the Gratitude Basket. I know most of you have already read this, but...


It's that time of year again.


The beginning


and


The end

sleepover central

All three of my boys are having sleepovers tonight. Sasquatch is somewhere else and the other two (and their friends) are here. I have to confess that I'm really ungodly tired of sleepovers. They're like a twelve hour long fight/bitch session/"I'm telling"/"why is my friend hanging out with him?"/"he knows I hate that game"/blah/ blah/ blah.


Somehow the message has been planted that a weekend without some sort of a sleepover isn't much of a weekend. (Something tells me that if I showed up with my own "sleepover friend", my kids wouldn't think it was necessary in the least. But I digress).


Gumby's friend is one who has been here many times and we all know well. Surfer Dude's friend, on the other hand, isn't. They've been in class together for a year, but haven't really socialized much before now. I couldn't pick the parents out of a line-up, and if they know me I'm not aware of it. And yet they let him come over and spend the night without any kind of parental connection being made. I kept waiting for them to call and give me the third degree - which I most certainly would have done, just as soon as I finished calling all the other parents I knew for references.


But no. When I got home from work they had all just gotten here. When I picked up my phone messages, there was a message from the new kid's mom saying that he had been supposed to call her when he got here and she wasn't even sure she had the right number. I called her back and said he was here, and was she sure she was okay with this and did she want to talk to him? And she just said oh, no, that's fine...and hung up.


Am I hopelessly anal retentive, or is this just not right?

worry blogs

Anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of time knows that I'm a worrier. World class, even. My grandmother, who had no room to talk, said that I was so bad that I'd worry even when there was nothing obvious to worry about, in the fleeting chance that I was missing something. I'd like to think that as I've gotten older, I've gotten better, but it's something I fight daily. It's a hell of a way to live, and I try as hard as I can to not let it get me down.


But today it's kind of getting to me. And rather than go to sleep and toss and turn, I thought I'd use this post as a kind of world wide web worry beads. You know, take each piece out, examine it...and hopefully let it rest. At least until there's something concrete to worry about.


Bead One: Gumby has been complaining about his stomach for weeks. As much as I honestly chalk it up to anxiety, I took him into the doctors today for a check-up. He, of course, ordered lab work to be done Thursday, in addition to trying him on a med to see if it helps. For someone who personally draws labs all day long, you'd think I wouldn't be so freaked out about this, but when it's my kids I just can't hang. I'm always amazed at people who stay calm and collected when something is going on with their kids, because, let me tell you...that's not me. Well, to their face I'm calm, but I'm like a big bowl of mush inside.

And because of the Labor Day holiday and the fact that this doctor has to send all of his labs out, it will be Tuesday before we get the results. If I was at work I'd have the results on my computer screen fifteen minutes after I drew the blood. I don't like it much when people come in because they're too impatient to wait to see their own primary doctor...but I sure do understand it.


Bead Two: Ninety minutes after I take Gumby for the blood test (across town), I have to be back in almost exactly the same spot to take Isaiah (The most perfect dog in the universe) to the vet to have the lump on his foot looked at. I had my hair cut even more today and when I was there my friend the hairdresser was telling me that her dog was just diagnosed with a seemingly harmless lump on his head, and it turned out to be cancer and there's nothing they can do. Our vet, who is normally scrupulously on top of things, has her own hands full with a pregnancy that went horribly wrong last month. Her twins died shortly after they were born, and she is understandably distracted. I love this woman, but I honestly think she should take a little time for herself, a little time to not have to be "on". So I'm worried both that something is wrong and also that if there is it might be missed. No matter what they tell me tomorrow - I'm going to worry.


Bead Three: I'm finally (for the first time since the separation) starting to worry about money. It's not that I'm short - yet - it's just that I feel like an ATM lately. One kid playing violin. Ka-ching. One kid playing baritone. Ka-ching. One kid taking photography. Ka-ching. Drama classes, soccer, choir, bus passes, lunch cards, fixing broken windows, heartguard for the dogs, a toilet that has water running constantly, the prospect of a cold (and expensive winter), the fear of large vet bills, and so on and so on. I'm being so careful about spending - and so quick to pick up overtime - that I should be okay. The child support payment is always on time - and a nice sum (soon to go up when the divorce is actually final). My ex is always willing to split kid fees, even on top of the child support. But still...


Bead Four: Closely related to Bead One. Sasquatch was about the same age as Gumby when he had a very bad year in terms of anxiety, misdiagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and just generalized psychological angst. I dragged the kid from one psychiatrist to another for a full year, and it was truly awful. I almost had to drop out of nursing school with eight weeks left to go. It was that bad. At the same age I had the same kind of OCD-like behavior - and it was really bad for about a year. I worry so much about Gumby along this same vein. He's just started Junior High, he is the closest of the three kids to his dad, his hormones are kicking in, he's starting to do little tiny OCD things...and he plays his cards very close to his chest. I don't want him to have to go through this. I know it's out of my hands, but I don't have to like it.


Okay. That feels a little better. I'm glad I got that out. I need to not borrow trouble and just wait and see what tomorrow brings. Maybe it will be good things instead of the awful things running through my head.


Maybe I will sleep tonight after all.

why animals eat their young

Dear sixteen year old son,

In some ways I feel like I need to apologize to you, since in the game of genetics roulette you got the short end of the stick in terms of nasty personality traits. You have my temper, your father's inability to ever hear a sentence in the way it was actually spoken, and my father's supreme conviction that you're always right and everyone else is always wrong. Your maternal grandfather, as you've heard me say, was the only human being ever to die without once having been wrong about anything. At least that's the impression I always got. Your listening skills leave so much to be desired that I don't even know where to start, and the fact that you come by them honestly is wearing very thin as an excuse. And the fact that, when called on any of this, you automatically deflect all responsibility and then lash out with my temper...is galling. Not even Campbells could market this genetic soup.



To be fair and accurate, you also got some of our best traits, too. You're funny, you're a great conversationalist, you're passionate about the things you love, you're loyal, you speak and write well, you're smart, compassionate and a sometimes all around good guy. Except to me. (And your dad, but that's a whole other story). I don't see a lot of the good things lately. I mostly see Paragraph One Sasquatch. And it's getting really old.


I understand that you're sixteen and you're supposed to prickly. I understand that you've had some significant life changes this year. I understand that you're conflicted about the level of your dependence on me. I get it. I really do. But the fact that I get it doesn't mean that I'm willing to put up with the way you speak to me, doesn't mean I'm going to let you treat me the way you have been. I've had more than enough.


Last night you messed up the computer. You came home from school and sat on the computer for hours before I got home from work. I came home, put dinner on the table, caught up on everyone's day, patted the dogs, washed my face...and got on my laptop. Five minutes later the wireless went out. I could hear you in the next room muttering under your breath and then you got up and stomped upstairs saying the computer was overheated and that we should all stay off of it. I asked about the wireless and you said IT'S OKAY MOM. IT JUST NEEDS TO COOL OFF. DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT...OKAY???? in a really crappy tone of voice. And then your bedroom door slammed.


Hours later, when the computer was still out, I knocked on that same door to ask if you had any ideas of what we could do. I wanted to post on my blog. I needed to pay the mortgage. It was a simple question. And you went off on me. Screaming and yelling, dodging and deflecting, accusing me of anything and everything you could think of that would wound and sting. I can't describe the way you do this to anyone who hasn't had the bad luck to witness it. You turn everything around. You twist facts around until they are unrecognizable. Last night you told me that I'm incapable of communicating with anyone. Your favorite thing to say is that I always attack you. Nothing is ever your fault. And very often you contradict yourself so many times that if I weren't so infuriated I would be tempted to laugh...but I don't. There isn't so much about these episodes that strikes me as funny.


As always, you're amazed after the fact that I might still be upset. Shocked that I could be angry. Blithe in the way you chalk it up to my "ridiculous attitude" or my "insane need to always be right". Happy to go along with your day as long as you feel that I'll "get over it" and give you another chance. Because I always have. And I always do. And you're very used to that and use it to your advantage every chance you get.


But it may surprise you, my self-absorbed son, that other people in this house have had a rough year, too. And other people in this house are tired of being taken so much for granted. And that you don't abuse those you purport to love. And that good will doesn't grow on trees. And that you need my support and good will far more than you realize.


And it may surprise you to know that you're about to find out just how much you need that good will from me. Because - as of now - it's gone.


Did I communicate that clearly enough for you?

slap fights

This past week won't be going on any Top Ten lists whenever I finally look back at my life and pick my favorite memories. My Saturday evening wine/chocolate/Hugh trifecta failed to deliver, much to my chagrin. Insult was added to injury when we ended up watching Michael Clayton instead and even George Clooney couldn't help. Now I'm the first to admit that they lit him very badly in this film but still. George and Hugh both? That's bad.


So on Sunday I shifted into Plan B - the fabulous bells and whistles bath. Lovely bath salts and oils, a moisturizing mask on my face, my favorite incense burning, a huge cup of tea - the works. This would relax me, damn it. I was going to insist on it. As the tub filled I took deep breaths and thought calming things. I was repeating my mantra - this too shall pass - when I heard a horrible thump from the living room. And again. I ran out of the bathroom, soothing carrot mask beginning to work its magic on my face, to see what the commotion was.


It didn't take long. As soon as I hit the dining room I took in the sight of Sasquatch and the Red Headed Step-Child rolling around on the floor, grunting and making inarticulate noises. The RHSC had a huge hunk of SQ's hair clutched in his hand and SQ was swinging blindly at the RHSC's head. Gumby and Surfer Dude were watching transfixed from the living room. This was a new one.


Channeling my inner mommy superhero, I grabbed them each by the collar and dragged them apart, shrieking at the top of my lungs the entire time. (I'm more used to dog fights and was wishing I had a water hose). Bear in mind that SQ is 6'1 and RHSC has a good three inches on him. No sooner did I start getting the story (a classic case of he said/she said) than SQ picked up a frickin' chair and swung it toward the RHSC's head. I deflected it with my arm (ouch) and proceeded to quietly go insane on him. Okay. Maybe not so quietly. The thumping I had heard was the two of them brawling on the stairs on the way down, knocking out spindles as they descended. I have a glass front door at the very bottom of the stairs. I was not amused.


I sent SQ to his room and drove the RHSC home. I wanted to call Laurie/Elly Mae on the way to give her a heads up on why I was bringing her son home in a battered state, but he was in the car so I couldn't. And even though we have a pact to treat each of these boys as if they are our very own, I somehow thought that looking like I had beaten him senseless was taking it a step too far.


I dropped him off and he ran upstairs in tears. I came home to find Sasquatch upstairs in tears. When I realized I still had the carrot mask on my face I wanted to hide upstairs in tears. And my bath water had gotten cold. Damn. The scent of soothing incense was in the air but I wasn't feeling the love at that point.


The reaction from people close to the boy brawlers was interesting. This was certainly a first. Our buddy Stacey, who knows them both far too well, said she imagined it would have been like a girlie-girl slap fight. (We might have taken this the wrong way, but we all knew that her son would have been the third girl in the ring). Paternal units were nonplussed. (And conveniently not home at the time).


But the exclamation point on the whole episode was provided by Gumby. As I walked back in the door from taking the RHSC home, Gumby stretched out on the sofa, grinned at me and said


Mom, you're a betting woman. If you hadn't pulled them apart who do you think would have won?


I took my bath later. Strike three.

it's alright...

It all started with the phone call Wednesday morning from the high school detention officer, telling me that Sasquatch has a three hour detention after school Friday. Seems the fact that he's consistently ten minutes late to first hour has finally caught up with him. To sweeten the pot, from this point on every day he's late to first hour is an automatic three hour after school detention.

If you had been a fly perched on my wall when the new semester started in January, this is what you would have heard:

RC: You have to make a much better effort of getting to school on time.

SQ: It's alright, mom. You can have ten tardies before you get a detention.

RC: That doesn't mean that you should deliberately rack up ten tardies. Save them for when you really need them, like when there's ice on the car or you've legitimately overslept.

SQ: It's alright, mom. Don't worry about it. My first hour teacher doesn't care anyway.

RC: Really? I find it hard to believe that he wouldn't care that you're late every day. I would care if I were him. I'd care a lot.

SQ: It's alright, mom. Why do you always get so angry with me? You're always attacking me. Why are you in such a bad mood anyway? You're always in a bad mood.

And if you'd been a fly perched on my wall this morning this is what you would have seen:

RC: get up, make coffee, oversee breakfast and lunch making for younger two, shower, sign schoolwork and planners, feed dogs.

SQ (in same amount of time): put on socks.

Guess who was late to school?

It's alright...cause I don't give a shit.

now I know my ABCs

And the wait for the report card continues...



Just to comprehend exactly what we're assuming we're waiting for, how about a little word game? Which one of these do you think matches up with us?


Artichokes
Are
Awesome

or

Brothers
Behaving
Badly

or even

Chronically
Cussing
Correspondent

oh, no


not even close


how about


Dogs
Feeling
Flatulent

Now we're talking.

the meltdown

I spent a good part of the day Tuesday wrapped up in blankets on my bed, sleeping dogs flanking the perimeter. The phone went unanswered except for once, the housework stayed unattended. Outside it was unseasonably warm, but with the promise of a dramatic temperature drop by late evening and a strong chance of snow flurries. On paper a lovely day. But it was not quite what it seemed.

Sasquatch had a monumental meltdown Monday night. A meltdown of epic proportions. Tipped over living room furniture, threw mail all over the entry hall and then moved into the kitchen. Emptied my fruit and vegetable baskets (one deliberate banana and onion at a time) against the sliding glass door, broke my brand new Ikea napkin holder, flung a pile of plastic hangers from the laundry room all over two rooms, sprayed shaving cream on the bathroom floor, upended a box of Wheat Thins into the bathtub and methodically took every single sponge and implement from the side of the kitchen sink and tossed them into the air, verbally taunting me the whole while. The happiest week of his life had been when I was in California. I was a liar and a cheat and a thief. My only reason to live was to torment my children.

All over a video game.

I tried at first to stop him but realized quickly that that was spurring him on. I was standing, back to the sink, watching him in disbelief when the FG walked in the back door to madness. It went downhill within minutes.

All over a video game.

I stood in my entry hall wrapped in my husband's arms and I cried so hard that his shirt stayed wet for the rest of the evening. All I could think of was Am I that bad a mother? And soon, the battle raged. The FG, infuriated, not only for himself, but especially for me. The younger boys scattering like marbles, running upstairs to huddle together in a bedroom, while the sounds of out of control fury lashed out around them. Sasquatch blindly saying and doing anything to hurt and humiliate. He hated us and knew we hated him. He accused my husband of physical abuse, and then, nose to nose, dared him to touch him.

And then, inevitably (and too late), came the remorse. The tears. The I'm so sorry I should never have done that/You know I can't control my temper when I get that mad/I didn't mean anything I said/Can't we just forget about all of this and try to have a nice Thanksgiving remorse. He cleaned up everything he had destroyed. He apologized to the boys. He apologized to me. He did not apologize to the FG, because there is a layer to their anger at each other that goes beyond a simple apology.

I know how terrible all of this seems on paper and I wish there was some way I could explain it so it makes sense. Sasquatch is at heart a wonderful kid. A generous, compassionate, funny, brilliant, loving kid. But...he is also exactly like my father. He is never wrong. Nothing is ever his fault. The world, somehow, owes him, and he doesn't like it when the world doesn't deliver. He has had anxiety issues in the past and even flirted briefly with an OCD diagnosis (which I don't think is accurate). He's been to see therapists and he's been on meds. I've dragged him from pillar to post trying to figure out what in the world is going on. He never cooperates with the doctors (or nurses or therapists or psychiatrists) because he thinks the whole thing is "ridiculous". Over time it's all come down to good old teenage angst. But I don't believe that. I want to, but I don't.

My husband was raised in a military family by a real "man's man" who did not hesitate to respond physically to his children. His was a You'll do it because I told you to kind of household. And there was hell to pay if they didn't. My mother-in-law, much as I love her, took no gruff either. As much as they could (and did) do behind her back, I cannot imagine any one of her children engaging in open warfare with her. It simply would not have been tolerated.

So it has been hard for the FG to not just haul off and let Sasquatch have it. But he hasn't. He has grabbed him a few times when the kid was totally out of control. He slapped him once, years ago, and has never been allowed to forget it, even though he apologized profusely and immediately. Every time there is a situation like this he's accused (by his eldest son) of beating his children. Every time.

My son is out of control and my husband is impotently furious and then there's me. I'm a mess. My chest hurts and I can't breathe and I feel like I'm moving through my day through a wall of water. My grandmother was only a few years older than I am now when I witnessed the dramatic appearance of her bleeding ulcer. I keep thinking I'm on that same track.

Tuesday night update: Sasquatch has been very sweet and apologetic since he got home from school. He has told me over and over again how sorry he is for his behavior and that he didn't mean anything he said. He has vowed to work on controlling his temper. He and the FG are talking and things between them seem cordial. Gumby is behaving as usual, although Surfer Dude is a little quiet. It's the calm after the storm. I'm always so afraid of the storms.

He used to have these eruptions often, but they've gotten a lot less frequent. I know he really is trying. Now having said that, last night was without question one of the worst explosions ever. Not the worst, but one of the worst. At least this time it was directed at the FG and I and not his brothers. I know he'd never hurt his brothers (at least physically), but verbally he can say some just ungodly things.

Sorry. This is a very choppy and disjointed post. The synapses aren't quite firing.

I just can't take this any more. And I have no idea what to do.

rock and roll

Eight years of apathy and missed chances are all catching up with me today in a big way. Ever since we've moved here my kids have periodically expressed an interest in going to the great big Six Flags type amusement park an hour away. Every summer I say we will and then about July when they ask when specifically I say it's too hot and we'll go in the Fall when it isn't a hundred percent humidity outside.

In the Fall when I'm finally ready to bite the bullet and go, I head to their website for info and do my very best Homer Simpson D'OH sound. Because we're not in California anymore and amusement parks aren't open year round and I suddenly realize that I've promised on my motherly honor (tarnished tho it is) to take my kids somewhere this weekend only to find out it's closed until April. In my continuing ineptitude I've extended this streak for eight years. It's ending today.

In an idea (mine) that I'd like to chalk up to drugs but can't, we're combining Halloween Haunted Houses with roller coasters at the great big Six Flags type amusement park. That's right folks, it's haunted amusement park time and we'll be there in all our glory. God help me. I'm picking the kids up as soon as they get out of school and we're heading out. The plan is to stay until they close at midnight.We're meeting up with some friends there (for parental moral support if nothing else). Last I heard the Film Geek, in all his vertigo prone glory is going too.

Speaking of vertigo, here is a video clip of one of the top attractions on my kid's list.




So for the sake of fun, lets take a closer look at all the participants, shall we? The Film Geek and his problem with spinning rides has been well documented. The man practically pukes at a picture of a merry go round. However, he's alright with heights. The Rotten Correspondent can be quite happily spun around like romaine in a salad spinner, but doesn't like to be any higher than the first step on a ladder. Surfer Dude is positive that the roller coaster hasn't been built that can faze him, but as he's never been on one before that's a matter for debate. He's refusing to go in the Haunted Houses on general principle. Gumby is positive that the Haunted House hasn't been built that can faze him, but as he's never been in one before that's a matter for debate. He's refusing to go on the roller coasters on general principle. And Sasquatch, who is pretty much afraid of everything, will be wandering the park with at least one and possibly two of his friends who will insist on doing everything, and rather than look like a wuss he'll go along until he cracks like an egg and calls me frantically on my cell to come and (discretely) rescue him.

Doesn't this sound like fun? How about if I add this - it's supposed to be in the low 50's with a strong chance for rain. Or this - it's the last weekend of the year they're open. Or even this - have I ever mentioned how claustrophobic I am and how much I hate crowds?

But it'll all be worth it when I don't have to listen to stories all winter that start like this - "Do you remember how mom forgot her promise again to take us to the amusement park..."

I can only imagine the stories they will be telling.

the anniversary, part two

The only room available for us was in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. The doctor stressed that Sasquatch wasn't in this area because he needed it, but because it was the only private room they had open. Until they did the spinal tap they couldn't absolutely know it wasn't bacterial meningitis, so they had to keep him isolated. Things began to happen very fast.

My family was swinging into gear as well. Sasquatch's beloved Auntie Leigh arrived at the hospital to stay with me. My mom and mother in law worked out child care for the other kids so my mom could come to the hospital too. Other than that, no one knew. I didn't call anyone to let them know. I had other things to do. I did call my husband. I think I called the school, or asked someone else to do it for me, but I'm not absolutely sure I even did that. An unexcused absence wasn't really high on my worry list at that point.

As soon as we got to our room in PICU they prepared him for the tap. He didn't even flinch when the IV was started. I understand the whole resident system a lot better now, but it was still unnerving to hear the resident who was doing the tap being walked through the procedure by the Infectious Diseases attending. I kept thinking "you're putting a needle in my kid's spine and you've never done it before??". What's wrong with this picture? They didn't want to give him a sedative, saying that since he was so out of it anyway it would just slow them down. I put on my best Shirley McClaine in Terms of Endearment voice and said GIVE HIM THE DRUGS, I don't want him to remember any of this. They did. (And he doesn't). They asked me to wait outside while they did the procedure. I refused to leave the room. They shook their heads and said if I felt faint I should sit down. If they'd had any idea of how faint I already felt I'm sure they would've forced me to leave long before the needles even came out. Leigh stayed in with us, which was good, because Sasquatch did wake up during the procedure and I needed all the moral support I could get. She told him jokes to distract him while I held his hand and cried silently into my own shoulder.

The test results came back pretty quickly. Viral meningitis. The only treatment really is IV fluids, rest and time. We settled in for the wait. There was a child dying in the room next to us and you could hear family members coming and going over the course of the evening. I came face to face with one of them on my way back from the bathroom and can still see their face. I have no idea of what I looked like at that point, but I don't think I looked like that. I get a sick feeling in my stomach just remembering it.

My mom and Leigh swapped out places. I stayed put. The fluids slowly dripped in. The Film Geek called for updates and tried to figure out the fastest way home. A room on a regular peds unit opened up and they moved us out of PICU. The child next to us died as they were transporting us out. My mom went home to take the other kids to her house for the night. I sat in the most uncomfortable easy chair I've ever had the misfortune to know and watched over my sleeping child. At about three in the morning the attending came in to check on him. His fever was down, he was slightly more alert, and the doctor said that it looked like he was responding well to the treatment. He told me to try to get some sleep, agreed that some sadist had designed the chairs and went wearily about his rounds.

I did manage to doze off and on, until about seven when the day nurse came in to get his beginning of the shift vital signs. It was the first moment of levity in the whole experience. I hadn't noticed that on the outside of our door was a sign warning that you had to have a mask and protective gear on to come in the room, because they were still treating it like it was bacterial. Now that I thought about it everyone except the doctor who had come in the room since we'd been in there looked like they were suited up for the plague. Well, this nurse was evidently too many shifts into a long work streak because she ripped the sign off the door and said "Does anybody in this god forsaken place know what they're doing? Can they not read V-I-R-A-L??" Terribly unprofessional, yes. But I think at that point I realized that if my kid was going down the tubes she probably wouldn't be talking like that, and I finally started to unclench. Just a little. (For all I know she talked to everyone like that. Who knows? Not my first choice in a pediatric nurse, but to each his own. In a strange way she comforted me, and I'll take it).

I've experienced the amazing effects of IV fluids many times in the last few years, but never more profoundly than that night. Around eight in the morning he told me he was thirsty. At ten he felt a little hungry. He ate some crackers and they even stayed down. By eleven his neck wasn't hurting every time he moved it. By mid-afternoon they were talking about sending him home. And by late-afternoon, in a dry run to see how well he could get around, they had me take him to the little playroom on the unit. He sat in a chair while all around him the longer term residents did an art class. The clown came up and started talking to him and one of the assistants asked if he wanted a picture with the clown. Sasquatch allowed as to how that would be fine by him, but was adamant that his arm be positioned so you couldn't see the IV. My high maintenance kid was back. Thank god.

The next year at our local elementary school a child died from viral meningitis. And several others were hospitalized. That same year a good friend lost her two year old daughter to the flu. Someone please tell me again. Why is it that we want children? Does the fear ever go away?

I've had some interesting experiences with my kids. There was the time a brand new resident, who seriously should have known better, told me that she was pretty sure that Gumby had leukemia, based on nothing but a rash. (He didn't). Can you say unglued? The kid in The Exorcist had nothing on me. There was the time Surfer Dude got away from me and ran across a busy street at full speed. Untouched. There was the drinking of paint thinner, the positive TB exposure test (back to the same infectious diseases guy), the time after his tonsillectomy that Sasquatch pulled out his IV in front of newly pregnant me and shot blood all over the place, the enlarged lymph node in Surfer Dude's neck that just wouldn't go away, the time Sasquatch patted a diamondback rattlesnake and so on and so on and so on.

But for sheer in-your-face helpless terror, this one takes the cake. I don't ever want to be in a position like that again. It's strange though. I now have the perspective of helping with procedures on kids from the "objectivity" of a medical "professional" standpoint. And here's what I've found. I'm not objective, I'll never be objective and I frickin' HATE peds. I can feel the panic emanating from the parents, I see my own children's faces on every kid in pain. I hear their cries. And I hate every minute of it.

It's too close to home.

So I keep the picture as a talisman, a reminder that things can turn out okay, after all. A little nudge to always be grateful for what I have, to always appreciate the amazing things I've been given in my life. A reminder to cherish my children on a daily basis.

Because underneath it all...I'm still always scared.

the anniversary

The photo is just an ordinary Instamatic type snapshot, taken by a total stranger. The content is nothing unusual, either. It shows a young boy and a painted up clown both smiling straight into the camera in a generic room. Ordinarily, this photo lives in my file drawer, in a folder marked personal. Sometimes I take it out just to look at it and run my finger across it. Occasionally, after a rotten day I'll find it to remind myself of what is and isn't really important. Always on September 15th, the "anniversary", I hold it close to me and say a silent word of thanks.

But even tucked away, I always know it's there, always a reminder, always tangible evidence of the time I honestly thought one of my children was going to die. A time when events spiraled out of control at warp speed. And there was nothing I could do about it...


Sasquatch was six years old and it was the year the Film Geek was in Michigan teaching. He had been gone one month, with nine yet to go. Gumby and Surfer Dude, at almost three and one respectively, were home with me all day, being too young even for preschool, and Sasquatch was a couple of weeks into first grade. When I picked him up at school one day, he said he didn't feel well and before I could even answer him he was sick all over the car. I took him home and put him in bed, figuring that our luck with the stomach flu that was going around school had just run out. For a day and a half he ran a fever and was unable to keep anything down. I called our pediatrician who said to keep him as hydrated as possible, give him Tylenol for the fever and just let it ride its course. Not really anything else you can do, she said, these damn viruses are everywhere right now.

It had been a Monday when he first got sick. I kept him in my bed to keep an eye on him and noticed during the night Tuesday that he was burning up. I woke him up around five Wednesday morning to give him some Tylenol, which promptly came right up, just before he slipped back into sleep. At seven thirty he called me in and said the words that still make my stomach clench, nine years later.

"Mom, my neck really hurts."

I wasn't a nurse then, and I ran to get the kid's medical book I always had handy. Looked up the meningitis symptoms, and realized, running down the list, that the only two he didn't have were seizures and death. Took his temp. 105. Called my mother. Get here now. Ran to our neighbors and asked them to stay with the younger two until my mom got there. Put Sasquatch (who was pretty much unresponsive at this point) into the car and drove hell-bent for the Emergency Room.

And got stuck in bumper to bumper rush hour downtown Los Angeles freeway traffic. Every now and then Sasquatch would briefly rouse long enough to retch into a plastic grocery bag that I found on the floor, before lapsing into a semi-conscious state. Every time he moved his neck he would cry. I called a friend from the car because her husband was a big computer geek and they had a great program to give very specific directions and I said this is where I am and this is where I need to go and can you get me there on side streets NOW? She couldn't make the program work and map quest then wasn't what it is now, so I sat on the freeway, fully expecting that any second my kid was going to go into the next thing on the checklist - seizures. I tried not to think of the lone symptom left. All around me people in their cars were singing along to the radio, eating their breakfast, putting on their makeup and doing all the other things people do when they know they're going to be in stop and go traffic forever. I was about an inch away from totally losing it.


Why didn't I just call the paramedics? Well, for a couple of reasons. First, and foremost, is that we were with an HMO that insisted you come to their hospitals for all your care. Of course the closest hospital was in Hollywood and we were in South Pasadena, eleven (LA) miles away. The paramedics would have refused to take him to our HMO. Never mind that I had a Level One trauma center a mile away. Or that I had to drive past a Children's Hospital on the way to "our" hospital. In hindsight I should absolutely have taken him to the one nearest me. At the time it never even occurred to me. This particular HMO - Kaiser Permanente - is such a major force in California that they can pretty much do things any way they want to. And they like to exert their power at every chance. When we moved to Kansas, in a perfect illustration of the Stockholm Syndrome, I was beside myself that we actually had to get a different health care plan because Kaiser wasn't available here. That, my friends, is brainwashing.


Things sped up considerably once we got to the hospital and before I knew it we were being seen by an infectious diseases specialist. He examined my son, who at that point was lying face down on the bed, not moving at all, and said


"We'll have to do a spinal tap to make sure, but I'm virtually positive he has meningitis."


Never before had I really understood what people meant when they said that the room spun. I kind of fell backwards into a chair. The doctor continued


"However, I'm also pretty sure he has viral meningitis, not bacterial, and that's a lot less dangerous."


I asked how he could tell. And he said


"The bacterial kids look a lot worse than this."


I looked at my unconscious, yet still retching kid, able to feel the heat off his body as I stood next to him, and asked how they could possibly look worse than this. He paused a minute and then said


"You don't really want to know."


to be continued...