Archive for November, 2010

When I was in 9th grade, I had a baseball coach for history. He wasn’t a history teacher who was ALSO a baseball coach. He was a baseball coach who happened to also have the responsibility of a history class. He made no pretense whatsoever of knowing any history or being able/willing to teach it.

Instead, he’d hand me a notebook of notes and tell me to write them on the board. He said I had nice handwriting and knew how to spell. This is true. One time he made the mistake of asking if I wanted to do this,  and I smiled and said, “not really.”

“Tough!” And he handed me the notebook and for the rest of the year he remembered not to ask – he just handed me the notes and pointed to the board.

Coach used to yell my last name across campus, as if I were one of his athletes. My maiden name is 3 syllables long, and when you yell it in a deep voice with an exclamation point after each syllable, it ceases to be anything I identify with any part of me. I sure didn’t answer to it. This did not inspire Coach to ever, even once,  use my first name.  Sometimes later he’d ask me in class why I never answered when he’d yell at me and I’d ask why he was yelling at me in the first place. This always caught him off guard and he’d shrug and say he didn’t remember.

He was the sort to yell and wave at anyone, anytime. I am the sort who doesn’t like this.

One of Coach’s baseball players and I shared the same last name, and I always assumed that if anyone were to yell that name in that way, then it probably was intended for that guy. Who was not related to me in any way. But who pretended he was, for I have no idea what reason, and he often told everyone I was his cousin. This bothered me because this guy was…. bleah. I didn’t really know him, and I never took the time to try. But I loathed him anyway. He was loud and outgoing and a general troublemaker and I never thought he was that bright.  He  was a pitcher, and he looked like a Ken doll.  I never find the Malibu Ken look  endearing in any way. Everyone else did, though, so I didn’t feel so bad.  He liked to wrap an arm around me and call me “cuz” just to confuse teachers and see if I’d deny it.

When teachers saw my name on the roll at the beginning of the school year, they would stop and narrow their eyes at me and tell me they already knew I was the pitcher’s cousin. They didn’t believe me when I said I wasn’t, and it was their way of warning me that they knew I’d be trouble.  Right. The petite, silent types with the killer spelling skills are SO ROUGH.

In Coach’s history class, there were all the athletes and a few of us non-athletes. I never considered that there was a REASON that Coach had all the athletes, or that they all got really great grades despite some of them not being all that smart. Like my non-cousin. And regardless of whatever my effort was, I got a 97 on every single report card.

None of us really learned any history.

I never thought I’d miss Coach’s history class. But today, I really do.

Today, I am in the opposite of that history class.  I can read everything I’m supposed to read, study as hard as I can,  and learn a whole lot of history – and yet there is NO WAY I can make a good grade on the quizzes. The professor set it up this way.  Obscure questions. Questions from a textbook he said we wouldn’t need. Questions that don’t exist in any of the required or optional textbooks. Everything he has given us in written form is positively hostile. It’s an online course, and I’m glad I won’t ever have to see him face to face.  This guy is mean. That’s not a hasty judgment, or overstating it. This guy is MEAN.

There will be no more undeserved 97s. There will be no special treatment because I have nice handwriting and I know how to spell.

And yeah, that’s how it SHOULD be… but I’m a bit wistful anyway.

I was faceplanted onto the couch this afternoon. I don’t often do that, but I was contemplating jaw issues stemming from a scream last week that has resulted in the awful necessity of a liquid-only diet.

Specifically, I was wondering if I was ready to go back to the chiropractor and risk explaining that particular scream and its affect on my jaw. Sure, I could just go in and NOT say anything. But I’m the sort of person who can THINK that she’ll do that and then when or if the question comes up, I totally overshare. I’m just like that. I go through life all, “don’t talk to me for ANY reason,” but if someone does for some reason, then watch out because there will be serious oversharing.

I think it’ll go away and I can chew again one day soon. I think.

So I was faceplanted on the couch when the two littlest boys forgot my existence and had a conversation I was SO glad to overhear.

Caden-6yr says that he saw Seth-5yr on the playground at school earlier. (Caden-6yr is a sweeeeet big brother. He’s generous and lovely, and he makes us all better people.)

Seth-5yr says, “Yep. I was chasin’ some guhls.”

(This is how the boys say ‘girls.’ I do not know why.)

Caden-6yr chuckles and says, “Yeah. I do that, too.”

Seth-5yr: “Pretty fun. I yike to chase guhls.”

Caden-6yr: “It’s so much more fun to chase guhls than to chase boys. Don’t you think, Seth?”

Seth-5yr is silent. He seems to be thinking this over. And then he says, “Yeah. I yike it when they {insert: high pitched girly shriek that almost made me fall off couch}  That’s SO funny when they do that. Why do they do that?”

Caden-6yr: “I guess because you’re chasin’ them, that’s why. Yeah…. I just love chasing guhls.”

Seth-5yr: “Boys are not any fun to chase. Just guhls.”

At this point I’m beginning to wonder how many different ways they can re-state this shared interest. Because it seems like a LOT of ‘just love this girl chasing sport’ and oh yeah, me too, ditto, blah blah blah, and there’s NO END to it. On and on. I’m getting worried. They only talk about Legos like this. Not girls. Not yet! They’re in 1st grade and preschool!

Ethan-10yr walks through and hears the conversation and sends it in a different direction. “Personally, I like to hide with my friend Zach and jump out and SCARE the girls. That’s fun, too.”

Thanks, Ethan-10yr. We’ve progressed from chasing to terrorizing.

Caden-6yr and Seth-5yr seem to like this idea. “Yeah,” says Seth-5yr. “I bet that would make them scream yike I yike, too!”

If my own jaw weren’t hurting from screaming (like a guhl), I would have discussed right then and there why not making guhls scream is a good thing. I might have told them to stop chasing guhls, too.

But that’s probably fairly pointless anyway.

My life consists of studying, laundry, and trying to creatively encourage the troops to be dedicated, consistent, 100% of the time serious-about-it Flushers. This ongoing task consumes a surprising amount of my mothering energy.

I have MANY talking points on the topic (and welcome any and all of yours):

* Empathy. You’re AFRAID of flushing? Okay. I can understand. But be MORE afraid of NOT flushing. Because… and then I have a list of awful reasons which are highly dramatized and not necessarily accurate. One of them, though, is that every single dear possession in the kid’s adjoining bedroom will smell of poo.  Why does this not inspire flushing? That would have TOTALLY freaked me out. Not that I needed inspiring. My sister and I were flushers, and had no clue that we should have been demanding recognition/rewards/ponies for this natural ability because it is special.

*The positive reinforcement approach. This includes whooping and applauding whenever hearing a toilet flush in the house and yelling, “Who’s the flusher…? YEA!” And then announce the child’s name and high five the child and stop just short of throwing a parade in his honor.

*Flush Rewards. (shut UP, I’m desperate here, and trying everything.) This can be a sticker or a special snack or anything, but it is given to the kids whose potties were flushed when a random potty check was performed.

*Scrub Duty. Your potty was not flushed, here is a toilet brush and I will stand here and time you while you scrub for five minutes. No lectures, no drama, just the consequence.  (I HATE this one)

*The Superhero Method. Look, this is what all girl superheroes do. Stand waaaay over here and flush with your foot. This one never caught on because a) they didn’t believe me and b) I specified GIRL superheroes.

My mom lived with us while her house was being built. There are many things I miss, now that my mom lives a full 5 minute drive away. She helped with laundry. She cooked. But more than that, she was just here and she mothered. (she still does, shh, go with me on this.)

So one summer day I’m really irritated with the no flushing thing and one of the boys says that THIS particular non-flushing incident was totally intentional, and was even done as a science experiment. And he’s serious. And I’m about to lose it, because I don’t care about science that much, I just DON’T.

My mother is in the living room.

I am overheard flipping out in the bedroom of the child who mistakenly thinks the academic excuse is going to fly with me. Specifically, I am overheard yelling, “Sure! You can do that experiment ONCE. But it turns out the same way every single time. You don’t flush? THE! TURD! FALLS! APART! OKAY?! NO! MORE!”

I return to the living room.

My mother has a grim expression on her face and says, IN ALL SERIOUSNESS, “Kelsey. I know I didn’t raise you to use that word.”

Ohmygosh. I just got in trouble for saying ‘turd.’ I really did.

She’s adorable.

“Mother. LaLa and I were two prissy girls. And I have three boys under the age of ten who do not under any circumstances say the word “fart.” Let’s just be happy about that right now.”

She looked completely stricken, as if she hadn’t considered it a possiblity that anyone would use that word, which is obviously so much worse. Neither one of us can exactly get our heads around the fact that I just said that word. Right after yelling ‘turd.’ I mean. Serious sins.

And she’s right.  She raised me, and I very much agree with her on the vocabulary preferences. But I was mid-rant with the disturbing discovery of another disintegrating poo and the ‘T’ word just slipped out. My bad.

Fast forward to this week. Ethan-10yr was overheard using the “F” word.

Fart.

I cannot stand that word. It makes me want to gag, it is just so crude I can’t stand it.  Ethan-10yr came around the corner and saw me, eyebrows up and maternal bug eyed in his direction, and he froze.  He knew he had been heard. Caught redhanded in the hallway with disgusting vocabulary.

“Ethan-10yr. We do NOT talk. like. that. I cannot think of a SINGLE reason why it would be necessary to EVER use that word.”

(Okay, yeah, I am my mother.)

Ethan-10yr nodded slowly, and then started silently counting on his fingers.

I waited. He kept counting. And then I realized he was silently adding up all the reasons that HE could think of in which using the ‘f’ word was necessary.

I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing, because if he knew I thought it was funny this battle was over forever and the ‘f’ word would be in every other conversation for all of eternity.

“Stopit!” He’d gotten at least to 30. I wish I’d realized what he was doing a little faster, becuase if you want someone to stop saying a word it’s REALLY not a good strategy to accidentally inspire them to brainstorm every single possible use for that word. “Go back and you just subsitute a different word for each one of those and see if that doesn’t work better.”

He rolled his eyes and pretended to do this.

“Thank you.”

I know that with three boys, this is probably a losing battle.

But it’s not a battle I’m losing this week. And that matters.

If you’re having a great Friday…. move along. Enjoy your day, and head directly for a mouse click somewhere else.  This is one of those posts written not really for y’all.… for y’all I try to keep things fairly upbeat.

But there’s another group who is very dear to me – and for them I can get pretty dark and scary. This post is for those sweet people. We don’t see them much, but they’re here. If you type ‘total transformation’ into the search box to the right you’ll see everything they come here and read — and it’s the depressing stuff. Necessary, but depressing.

One time I’d written about James Lehman’s Total Transformation Program in a positive light, and then ages later, someone from there said – hey, let’s pay you for what you already wrote. And maybe you could write some more. But I almost never do. When they call, I avoid the phone (but I do that with everyone). I sometimes return their emails. And I’m generally pretty flaky with the nice Total Transformation people even though they send me money.

It’s mainly that I know what they want – and I do not want to give it to them. They want me to write about their product. They KNOW I believe in it. But the WAY I write about it is kinda painful. So I almost never do, even though it’s pretty great and I sincerely think most families would benefit from it.

But I told them I would write. And that it would be this week.

And then I was up all night because a stupid recurring nightmare I’ve had my whole life woke me up at 2 am and then I couldn’t sleep and I shoulda gone to the gym but instead I lay there and compared this stupid nightmare to that particular period in my life that I least want to write about, but committed to.

There’s a particular weird, unique heavy sort of dread that accompanies this nightmare. Fortunately, it’s so unique that I’ve never felt it any other time – waking or sleeping – and always know instantly to wake up – it’s THAT dream. I started having THAT dream when I was 4 or 5. (happy childhood, no repressed anything – really) I thought I’d outgrow it, but never have.

It’s a simple dream. A small flower petal, the size of a fingernail, is upturned and curving toward the sky – laying on the ground. And then the world’s largest steamroller slowly smashes it.

I’m the flower petal, and because I am just a ridiculous little flower petal, I have no ability to move, flee, put up a good fight, or survive.  I hate that dream. It sounds so simple, and even silly - now. But at night it isn’t, and I have to wake up fully because if I don’t, and I slide back into sleep, it’ll come back. And that awful feeling that always accompanies that dream will also come back.

So I was jumping up and down, in the dark, on a bathmat at 2 am last night in order to wake up fully so that I could go back to sleep. The problem with that is then you’re awake and might not be able to go back to sleep.

So here goes:

If you’re a parent and you have a pretty normal kid who is acting out and your parenting skills maybe aren’t up to the challenge – yes. You need Total Transformation. Put in the time and effort and go through the material and you will be seriously rewarded with a change in your house.

But that wasn’t my scenario. And that’s all I got for you “parents with normal kids, acting out” group.  I wish you well.  I’ve always wished I were you.

But my heart breaks for another group of parents with bigger problems than yours. There aren’t as many of them, but they’re a special, lonely, and misunderstood group. You guys are the moms and dads, aunts and grandparents, who are raising a kid who wants to physically hurt you – and oftentimes already has.

This group is sometimes – usually – desperate for solutions, exhausted in every possible way, financially drained, depressed, alone, and tired of describing their situation to people/professionals/family who may or may not believe them, may or may not understand, and who probably can’t or won’t help in a meaningful way.  These people are very brave. They’re raising someone who is a very real threat because it is the right thing to do, because it’s their responsibility somehow (and thankssomuch God for THAT), and a lot of times the kid they’re raising is making sure to trash that individual’s character and reputation in a believable way, everywhere…  I’ve been one of you. But I’ve also exchanged emails with countless members of this group and these are common themes.

They’re just trying to survive, and are not sure they can. Sure, they’d love to have a ‘total transformation’ and get this child they love back on track – but by the time things are this dire – it’s a lot more about surviving until a way out presents itself.  Will the TTP help this group? Oh yes. And if you’re like I was, than you will gladly try ANYTHING that ANYONE says will help – life has become exactly that desperate.

My daughter was 10 (..?) when things got kinda rough. There was stealing, and odd food issues, and general, far reaching unpleasantness. Mine by adoption, my husband’s child biologically – and she’d been my daughter since she was 2.

Enter: reactive attachment disorder. (that’s the BEST site, and very nice people are behind it. hi michelle!)

Enter: hell in West Texas.

She was lovely around most anyone. Charming, model student, smart, pleasant. This had all the teachers and principals and even Mike more than a bit unbelieving of my account of what she was suddenly like at home with just me and her brothers. My mom  and sister believed me and understood – but they lived pretty far away.

All the professionals we saw were pretty hopeless. Some local friends loved and supported us and tried to help – but this was impossible since they never could actually see the real issue. They (and Mike) could only see the little brown eyed angel they’d always known and loved. And I wanted them to see her that way. I wanted it to still BE that way.  Many of them thought that if I would just be more loving , or more this, or more that – then everything would be solved. It would just be so EASY if the blame and solution could be all up to me…  so, why aren’t you fixing this already, Kels…? Lonely days.

She decided if she could force a divorce, I’d be gone and life would be great. But that didn’t happen. Plan B was to kill me before the special 6th grade mother/daughter tea at the end of the school year. I found the drawings and plans in her room, and she admitted later she was in “research mode.” How hard does she sleep? Is she likely to fight back… and how? How often does she forget to lock that door….? I could kill her in the kitchen, in front of the sink…that’s where the knives are…

While she was in Research Mode, I was in Survival Mode. I had three little boys to also take care of, but my thoughts were often: don’t forget to lock the door, don’t relax, don’t sleep, listen for everything, don’t show pain, don’t show weakness of any kind, stand up straighter, look taller, don’t be so clumsy, what was that noise… is everyone where they should be… is everyone safe…? quick, go check. and then repeat. around the clock.  More so when Mike was out of town.

She’s 16 now, and hasn’t lived with us for the last 4 1/2 years. She’s been in treatment centers that didn’t help, and is now with a family in another state. On her last visit, she was angry and tried to hurt me, but didn’t really succeed. Years later, I can tell you we’re all safe. It took me ages to learn how to sleep again. To relax. To live. To make a mistake of any kind and just laugh it off instead of instantly wondering how this would be used against me. I did survive… this is written from the other side.

So for the parents who may be living through something similar… I think the world of you for trying so, so hard. You can write me, and I’ll believe you. (That would have been so nice! I would have wanted that in return so much! Let me do that for you. I may not be able to help, but I will listen and I will believe and support you through this as long as you want me to.) For this dear group, I have a couple of points:

1. I’m not usually this blunt. BUT. If you don’t know God, you need to introduce yourself. Simple as that. Say hello. Then learn the habit of praying without ceasing, and your peace level will increase exponentially. (I’m not talking fancy holy prayers. I mean, “Hey, God, my new buddy, there’s a real threat in the next room and did you hear what he/she just yelled….? Huh.”) If that doesn’t make sense, by all means, email me right now. I lived through two VERY scary awful years because God patiently walked me through each of those days. I do not recommend trying it on your own. I wouldn’t have made it. He was ALL I had, and He was enough. When there wasn’t anyone else to believe me, be there with me, keep my family safe – He did. It’s that simple.

2. Yes – Total Transformation will help. If things are homocidal, you need bigger help than this – BUT – it’ll still help some and that’s worth a LOT. You’re probably pretty dejected and feeling like the worst parent around (and being told so, perhaps, by many different sources) – this will lift you back up and get you back on the right track. Really.

3. There’s a ‘contact me’ link to the right.***  I don’t care if this post was written in 2010, and you’re reading it in 2020. Click it. You can write to me and I will hear you out/believe you/help you/pray for you/whatever it is you might need. You are not alone.  I lived through this and you will, too.

4. Get WHATEVER tools and talents and programs and friends and character traits you might need. Actively cultivate your path to survival. Pray about what should be on that list, and then get it. If you need to get in better shape physically, do it. If you need to stop talking to a friend who doesn’t understand and who undermines you, dump that friend and move on. What do you really, really need to get through this process without losing yourself more than you already have? Write it down.

I hate that awful dream with the flower petal and the steamroller because the petal has no ability to save herself from a larger than life, impending crushing death.  Don’t be that flower petal. Get tough in every way you can get tough. Get strong. Smart. Vigilant. Be loving, forgiving, compassionate, but TOUGH at the same time. Get God. And get going, do not just stand there. You have a kid to raise and you’re doing a much better job than anyone – including you – thinks you are.

*Total Transformation totally pays me if you click these links and buy it. If it bugs you, do NOT click these links and buy it. That simple. I won’t know who you are and if you do and if you don’t buy – doesn’t matter to me, anyway. (the TTP people probably SO wish I could just write a normal product review instead of crazy posts like this, but eh. i don’t have ‘normal product reviews’ in me.)

Please know that it doesn’t matter to me at all if you’re a potential TTP purchaser – my interest in you is not as a sale. Email me if you think  I could be in any way helpful to you.

***guess what? that stupid ‘contact me’ link doesn’t work. Until I get that fixed, just leave a comment telling me to email you back and I certainly will.

Last night Mike got home from a trip, late, and his back was hurting and the whole house smelled like skunk (I don’t wanna talk about it) and I was half asleep. It wasn’t much of a welcome.

And, “Shhh, let me go back to sleep before my sense of smell wakes up,” is really, really lame.  Even if the whole house DOES smell like the skunks had a kegger in the living room last night.

So this morning I’d dropped the kids off at school, mowed my mom’s yard, and was on my way to PetSmart when I see Mike’s black truck. It’s the only one at the intersection and I pull up next to him in my giant, mud-encrusted red truck. He’s on the phone.

Partly I felt bad about the non-welcome he got last night. Partly I like to… keep things interesting. Partly, I am a big dork.  So… since no one else was around… I started flirting. Outrageously. But he was on the phone.  And he was looking, but he seemed to be looking at the truck instead. Hard to tell, since he had his phone in his right hand and it was between us.

Trust me when I say that I’m not the sexy sort. I have a friend who looks just like Barbie. Next to her, I am your classic Skipper. So even if I didn’t have grass clippings all over me and a shopping list for cat litter and dog food next to me, I’m no bombshell. But I knew Mike would get a kick out of this… so I did this fairly dramatic unzipping of my black hoodie (t shirt underneath, y’all) with lots of ridiculous facial expressions.

And he did seem to get a kick out of it. I definitely got a reaction.

He rolled down the passenger window just as the light turned green and he put his phone down.

He looked shocked.

And that’s good. That’s what I’m going for. Something to think about the rest of the day and all, right?

But.

It wasn’t Mike. It was some other cute, dark haired guy in an identical  black pickup truck (from the SAME small dealership outside of town) who was thoroughly appalled  at the antics of the brunette  heathen in the red pickup next to him.

I screamed. I hurt my jaw and undid all the chiropractic fixing that was done yesterday and I made this awful gasping sound and was really glad I had my window rolled up and that Not-Mike guy could not hear my freakout and could only see it.  I wanted to cover my face and slide down into the floorboards but the light was green so I floored it and took a right turn and THEN pulled over and freaked out in the floorboards.

I stopped next to a park and made sure there was no one around and then slid down in my seat and laughed and prayed that God would please forgive that one little innocent intersection faux-striptease thing, because really, I meant well, Lord, and I promise to NEVER do that again.

This is my one week off before starting more classes, so I decided to get in shape. Today. All. Today. Not just because I had time, what with the school break, but because I told my cousin I’d do a half marathon with her. And I haven’t really gone for a run in a few… weeks.  And I’ve never run a race at all. And… aren’t there lots of people squished around you when you run races like that…? But  I’ll worry about that later.

Somewhat delayed, after committing to run with her, I remembered to ask exactly how long a half marathon is. Numbers and I do not get along. They just slip out of my head as quickly as I put them there. But I figured I better remember this one, and then work towards it and all. Today.

She ran a full marathon a few years back, and knows these things. She answered me. But I forgot.

The first order of business today was to see a chiropractor. I had gone for a quick, one night trip this weekend to see family and laughed SO much with my mom, sister, cousin, father and stepmother (not all at once),  that my jaw FREAKED. OUT.  So the chiropractor fixed it, after examining it and saying, “you really did laugh too much.”

I cannot help it.

My sister is loud, and funny, and when we’re in public places she often says or does something that evokes this mix of  embarrassment/shock/laughter/let me crawl under a table rightthissecond/cry from laughing thing. Actually, all of my family is like that. But LaLa is in a league all her own.  And I’m a ‘please let me blend into the wallpaper and let no one notice me’ sort and the combination of that and LaLa is…. really something.

There was a perfectly innocent reason for her to look at me and loudly proclaim, ‘KINKY!’ Really. There was. Four of us sat at a vegan cafe discussing all sorts of things, and also the soon-to-be-remedied texture of my tumbleweed hair. This was LaLa’s (loud) adjective.

I was already nervous about being in a vegan cafe in the first place, because vegetarians in general make me nervous.  I did not really want to partake in their culture all the way to the vegan level, or accidentally trip and fall and end up in their cafes and come out wearing birkenstocks.

It’s not always about the shoes with me.

No, okay, it is.

The food was lovely.

My hair is professionally smoothed.  My jaw is expertly fixed. I did not trip and fall into a vegan’s shoes. I did trip  and almost fall in the parking lot afterwards, but that’s just because the ground is uneven there and I am not used to uneven, sloping ground. Where I  come from, the ground is flat.

So today I went to the gym, determined to do two classes and maybe get a run in later today. I’m sort of  an all or nothing sort. Today was ALL. After the first class I was really shaky because I’d  taken the instructor up on her challenges every single time to add more weight than usual.   I hate it when they say that. I can’t ignore it. It sets off this competitive thing in my brain and there’s no turning it off. No one else would know, but that doesn’t matter.

After the first class, I washed my hands in the locker room and could not get a paper towel to come out of the dispenser. I was shaky and my hands were drippy. A very nice lady at another sink finished, retrieved paper towels from another dispenser, and handed me two. “Honey, here. That’s the tampon machine.”

“Oh. OH! Thanks.”

The two things look nothing alike. They’re on the same wall, but still.  NOTHING.

“You’re welcome. Does your hand hurt? It looked like it hurt when you dropped that weight on it.”

“Ah… uh… no. Thanks for asking.”

Apparently the Nice Lady Who Can Discern The Key Differences Between Paper Towel Holders and Tampon Machines was in that class, and I’d dropped a weight on my hand but I’d already forgotten until she mentioned it.

Anyway. Hand is fine.

I did the second class, but skipped the run. There’s always tomorrow. If I can move.

I forget. How far is a half marathon…?