Happy Hump Day

The battle continues.

While Sissy comes unglued at home because she is back in school and being asked to do things she doesn't want to do (in other words, education = no coloring and listening to Michael Jackson ad nauseum), I suit up and prepare to do battle on her behalf, again.

OK, so it is a bit of a joke that it only took her 17 days to get ISS.  But the reality is that it's the school's fault.  Yes, my daughter should be held responsible for her choice to cut PE by going to the bathroom for 45 minutes and not telling any adult where she was going or what she was doing.  But I've told the school and the county time and time again, she can't have that much freedom.

Look, if I have to make my daughter sit in a lawn chair in the driveway while I mow my front yard, a job that takes only 20 minutes, because she gets into too much trouble if she is unattended in the house while I use the toilet for 5 minutes, then clearly my child can not be expected to walk from one wing of a middle school building to another with the other 900 students all moving at the same time AND be expected to GO TO THE CLASS SHE HATES.

In short, she's a liability.  A walking lawsuit waiting to happen.  A flight risk.  Vulnerable prey to a predatory hormonal male student that sees her wandering the halls alone, unsupervised.

At home, it's clear to me.  With that much freedom, she panics.  For Sissy, that means be bad, be very bad so you get restrictions that limit your freedom!  Of course, if you ask my daughter if she's doing it on purpose she'll deny it flat out.  But if you ask her, "So... why do you think you keep making poor decisions?"  She'll answer quickly.

"I can't take it!  I just can't take it!!! It's too much for me!!!"

Because it is.  And if my mentally ill and developmentally impaired child knows that it's too much and can SAY SO, then why is it such a hassle to get the county to agree that a more restrictive learning environment is what she needs?  Why does it come to a battle every single time?  Why does it require that I call the state so THEY can call the county and tell the county to call me back because the county WON'T call me back unless I play hard ball?  All it does is make me look like a brute of a helicopter parent that enjoys fighting and tantruming like my daughter does.    When in reality, I'm a mother fighting for what is right, fair and appropriate for my child.

When asked about ISS, my precious daughter said with excitement, "It was cool ! We got our own special toilet time and lunch time, separate from the rest of the students!"

This is NOT the voice of  a child that is remorseful for her actions.  It is the voice of an emotionally disabled child that is functioning at age 5 on a good day but who also has the uncanny ability to speak the truth about herself without saying it outright - she needs a learning environment in which she is separate from the rest of the general population and then she will be happier than a camel on hump day.

The Wait Is Over

19 days.  Well, 17.  The teachers didn't turn in the discipline referrals for her infractions on Wednesday until today which means she serves ISS on day 19 of the school year.

Her grandmother wins the prize.  She gave Sissy 21 days.  Here's to grandmothers holding out hope! I really didn't think Sissy would make it this far.

The school finally submitted the CCETS referral on Tuesday but... wait for it... they will probably deny it because, well, because it's a referral from a parent and not from the school. Now, the school agrees - they are not equipped to support Sissy at their facility and she needs alternative placement.  But the county?  Ah, there's another story.

We got this

In July, when I called the school to ask where Sissy's CCETS [1] referral was, the assistant principal has asked how her summer had been.  I answered cryptically because I am keen to read between the lines of questions that educators ask.  "If you're asking if Sissy's matured any and changed her behaviors so she will be more successful than last year, the answer is, no."

Nine school days ticked off the 181 day calendar and they still haven't finished her referral.  Nine school days and ten emails later, it is clear to everyone that she is truly not capable of this level of education.  Nine days of school later and she hasn't had a suspension... yet.  So if your bet was she would be in trouble before this, you're a loser and Sissy is the winner.

:D

Actually, a long time friend of mine who is also parenting adopted children with challenges, works in the CCETS program for K-3.  She has suggested that should the school need to discipline Sissy for her shenanigans, that I deny they meter out said discipline on the grounds that I was honest and fair with the county, requesting the referral.  At this point, it is the SCHOOL that is dropping the ball, not me.

Which is what I tell Sissy.

She is quite frustrated and vocal about her frustration.  Her anxiety is sky high and she has already made herself physically ill because of it.  She knows she is smart but she simply can not handle the stress of the mainstream classroom.  Every time the phone rings she wants to know if it's the school and I tell her, "my dear, I've done MY job as your mom.  The rest is up to the school.  No single person makes this decision - it is a team effort."

Then I repeat and repeat and repeat.  It would help if I had a parrot to repeat these statements for me because my tongue gets tired saying it over and over.

And as such, with her anxiety, Sissy's at-home behaviors are of the charts.  *sigh*

This morning, AB, WG and I chilled while she slept late.  It was really nice.  Then she got up and within twenty minutes was awarded the privilege or being sent back to her room for her behavior.  lol

In the meantime, we got AB's EEG results back - they were normal.  HOORAY!  I'm hoping his cardiology appointment next Monday goes equally spectacular.  If not, then his pdoc and I go back to the drawing board with his meds.  One day at a time.  The med adjustments we made this summer have really brought him back to a positive baseline for his mood but potentially at the cost of stressing his heart.  Healthy heart vs. healthy mood?  Seems like there are never easy answers.

Still, all of this is petty compared to the Kilimanjaro's we've scaled that last four years.  We can handle it.  No biggie - we got this.

Be good. Don't hurt anyone.


[1] CCETS is the name of our county's emotional behavioral disability program

What is church anyway?

It's a Sunday morning, the cicadas are wildly chirping, the sun is blazing, the dishwasher is swishing, the air conditioner is humming, the chihuahua is madly running in circles and I'm sitting at the computer typing a blog post instead of being in church.

It bothers me that I was raised to be a church goer and to celebrate God and all he provides on Sunday, to fellowship with like-minded believers and then to be 38 and completely incapable of putting a foot inside the doors of a house of worship.  It bothers me because I feel like it's what I'm supposed to do.  It bothers me because I'm not setting the same example that was laid out for me for my own children.  It bothers me that my once unmitigated passion for Christ has dried up like a man made pond in the rural south.  It bothers me, but not nearly as much as religion does.

Now that my family has reached a quiet, resting place in the chaos of life and mental illness, now that we smile and laugh and hug more than cry, shout and punch pillows, I've found myself in an unexpected place regarding my faith.  I'm not denouncing Christ or casting aside worship, I'm not switching faiths or bashing all persons as religious zealots.  I'm simply being.  I'm being in the moment on a Sunday morning when the cicadas are wildly chirping, the sun is blazing and a cool breeze is blowing, my shoulders are relaxing because my body is rested, my mind is quiet and peaceful and my children are happy.

Good God Almighty, my children are happy.

Gone are the days I would dash off to church hoping to hear some message that would give me the key to fix my family, to make us whole, to adjust myself view, to praise and worship myself hoarse in the hopes that my sacrifices to God for 90 minutes would make it all right again.  Gone are the days I made the mad dash to feed children and fight the rush hour traffic to get to a homegroup meeting or a Wednesday night service because the measure I eeked out on Sunday morning wasn't enough to get me to hump day, let alone the rest of the week.  Gone are the moments I reluctantly walked out of church, feeling lower and lonelier than I did before I walked through the open doors.  Gone are the days the offering plate passed by me and the guilt of not being able to sacrifice one quarter no longer haunts me.  Gone are the days I gave the full 10% tithe when the groceries hadn't been bought or the power bill hadn't been paid because I was hoping that this time, there would be a 100 fold return as the preacher promised (only to learn later that the cupboard was still bare, the power bill was late and I was out the cash I could have used for those amenities but my pastor pulled into the parking lot with one more new vehicle.)

This life changes you.  If I could convince my like-minded believers that worship, praise and thanksgiving doesn't occur in a fancy chapel but around the dining room table when your mentally ill daughter tells you that she thinks your hair looks nice today, I would feel less guilty for not being in a pew at 10 am in my Sunday best.

If I could convince Christians that doing God's work is getting up in the morning before your teenagers so you can greet them with a smile and a hug while you prepare their breakfast I wouldn't mind that I don't have a quarter to put in the offering plate.

If I could challenge people to consider drinking coffee on the back porch while being warmed in the sun and sung to by the insects as praise and worship, i might actually sing again myself.

If people would learn from me the lessons that I've learned on this journey called parenting special-needs children instead of trying to get me back in the doors of THEIR church that just might, maybe could, perhaps they would try to meet my family's unique needs on a Sunday for two hours, I would thank God the Creator and maker of all things that I suffered so that others might learn.

I've found a new church.  It is a church of peace, hope, love, kindness, patience, forgiveness, selflessness and self-control.  It is the church of God as it was intended to be.  It is serving and being thankful and worshiping all day, every day with all people every where regardless of their situation.  It is open-mindedness and giving your $10 visa rewards gas card to the neighbor that had a stroke.  It is unconditional love for your broken child.  It is patience unending for your impaired son.  It is kindness for the ex spouse when seeing his face makes you want to wretch.  It is genuine happiness despite all ills.  It is hope that the next ten minutes of life will be joyful and perseverance when it isn't.

If this church exists and happens to have regular meetings on Sunday mornings so I can hug people, laugh and cry with them, I'll be there, wearing whatever I put on to get there and maybe with a few dollars in my pocket to share with another needy soul.  Until then, I'll be right here.  Come join me.

PLACE YOUR BETS!

Tomorrow is the first day of school for the kids and teacher orientation for me.  AB has been pacing for days.  Sissy is acting like a one year old.  WG is so excited she can't stand it.

All I can think about is that on Wednesday I'll be prepping for class in a quiet house.

As far as summer's go, this has actually been a good one.  Sissy didn't have her typical summer depression and AB's med changes have made a huge improvement in his mood and willingness to communicate.  We've had fun, it's been crazy, we've shouted at each other and laughed with each other and splashed each other in the pool.  We've had a trip to the ER for a bandaid (seriously, it looked like AB's leg had been splayed open and they gave him a BANDAID), we've met a new psychiatrist, we've made new friends, we've cried and slept.  We've slept alot.  Get-our-lazy-butts-out-of-bed-at-noon kind of sleeping.

Just now, AB and WG came in here and started a spontaneous light saber fight.  AB hasn't played with his light saber in over year so that is totally cool!!!!  Now, if only he would break out the legos or go swing without his music, I think the world might stop spinning for a pico second.

On Saturday I got some much needed help when a home group from a local baptist church that is affiliated with my school came over in droves and knocked out some major yard work and household fix-it chores. For the first time in 19 months, I didn't have to mow my yard!  

Every rose has it's thorn though.  Sissy is back to the general public school.  The middle school misplaced her referral for the Emotional/Behavioral disability classroom and unless I want her marked truant while they sort it out, I have to send her to the middle school.  PLACE YOUR BETS!  I'm giving her two weeks before she's getting a suspension.  Winner gets a cool mini quilt to hang. 

I'm serious about that. 

Really.

I mean, if I have to send my mentally ill daughter to the regular school where the staff is going to complain about her mental illness until the county agrees that she doesn't need to be in that setting, we might as well make a game of it, right?  Because when she has three days of OSS and I'm the one dealing with her in the house or in my classroom for those three days, knowing that I have friends behind me will make it easier.

AB just walked past me to head outside with his subwoofer speakers and a mini digital recorder. 

*face palm*

Happy

Can I still do this?  Can I still write my thoughts and ...

I stopped blogging in October because the pain was too great.  Just so painful.  And because when my ex used it as a weapon against me, the one outlet I had to reach out and feel the love and know I wasn't alone, it cut me off at the knees.  It felt like being burned and drowned at the same time.

Oh, there are stories to tell form the last nine months.  Gosh.  I could have birthed a child in that time!  Well, perhaps I've birthed a new me?

I feel better.  I feel like I can breathe again.  I feel like I'm alive.  I'm happy.  Really, truly happy.  Some days I climb back up the monkey tree and screech and wail from the top that I'm going to fall to my death.  But most days my feet are on the ground, I'm standing tall and I'm SMILING.  Me.  Smiling.  I like this.

In a week all four of us go back to school.  WG, who is 9 now, will be back in public school.  She was all aces throughout our homeschool year but she missed the socialization.  She has also overcome her fears and surmounted her own anger.  She gets easily frustrated but recovers quickly. No more shutting down or destroying property.  Mostly, her annoyances include, well... Sissy is her only annoyance. LOL  So off to public school, the school we're zoned for.  No teachers at that building will remember her older siblings.  In fact, Sissy only got to the third grade there.  WG will be in the gifted program.  She'll be riding the bus (she LOVES that!) and it'll be all new friends that never witnessed her tantrums and her selective mutism when pushed to the edge.  Or her intentional urination tricks.  Plus, have I mentioned how smart that girl is?  Dang.  So insanely smart.  She gets it from her momma. *wink wink*

AB has had a rough six months.  Lots of depression and anxiety.  Now we're beginning testing to determine if he's having absence seizures and to see a cardiologist because he has mild tachycardia from his resperidal.  He's such a trooper.  He's talking so much more now.  Which is its own annoyance.  He's hard to understand and he asks such big questions like, "Mom?  When I'm 18, can I go live on Mars?"  To which I reply, "Well... if that's what you really want to do.  But don't count on me coming to visit for Sunday dinners."  He gives me a half smile and a chuckle.  Translated: My mom is so funny.

I like to make AB laugh.  *me and WG in unison* AB has the BEST laugh!!!

I love my son.  Love, love, love my son.  I can't imagine raising a son that was neurotypical.  It would drive me INSANE!  No thank you, I'll take my developmentally delayed and mentally ill son.  NT boys are nuts.  AB is now 12 and entering the 7th grade in a co-teach/inclusion para-professional learning environment.  Hopefully this dynamic will continue to work for him.

Sissy.

Ah well... is she ever going to be anything other than Sissy?  Pbft.  NO.

We wait on pins and needles for the county to call this week and let me know if she will be moved to the Emotional/Behavioral Disability classroom, a learning setting that is independent of the general population and in our county, it's in a school 6 miles from home.  It means she'll ride the "short bus".  It means AB won't have to deal with her all day long.  It means no more OSS and ISS and bus suspensions.  It means when she starts "womanhood" I won't be driving to the school with clothing changes because there will be certified staff taking care of it for me.  It means she won't be stealing and wandering the halls and hiding under desks and having rages in the middle of math class.

Aw hell, she'll still be doing all of that nonsense.  It just means there will be staff that is trained to deal with it.

But for now, it is a waiting game.  School begins the 6th and we still don't know.  If she's back in the building with AB, it's going to be short lived, I can tell you that.  Sissy has plateaued.  What you see is what you're going to get from her, for the rest of her life.  She's functionally 5 years old on a good day, 2 on a bad day and on the hold-your-hats-because-she's-going-apeshit-again days, she's 18 months old.

On the calendar, she's 13.

*sigh*

I'm single and loving it.  The trees are a little greener, the air is a little fresher.  Sissy hasn't needed stabilization or RTC for 19 months and counting!!!!  I'm teaching, studying for the GACE and enrolling in the MAT program in January so I can move to the public school and get benefits for the first time in my life (I'll be 39 in October.)  My yard is well kept because I use yard work as my anger outlet.  In the BeTA fundraiser, my donated quilted items raised $275 to help another mom attend the 2014 BeTA retreat in Orlando.  I'm certified to provide respite for adults with special needs and have two young women I care for on Mondays and Wednesdays when I'm not in the classroom.  I laugh so much more than I cry. I have my last therapy appointment in August.

I'm happy.

Four years

I didn't mean to.  That is, I didn't mean to neglect the blog for a month.  I'm going to blame it on my laptop.  The 'r' button is sticky and won't cooperate so I type and retype and retype a third time just to get the 'r' to work. My left pointer finger is sore.  *holds it up*   Kiss it?

Blame.  That's an easy trap to fall into. No one wants to take ownership for their failings. It goes against human nature - probably a prehistoric genetic trait initially developed for survival of the species when primates eeked out a miserable existence.  Now it just makes the evolved human irritating to deal with.  I envision it as a de-evolution with eventual destruction of the species.  Much like the unused appendix in modern man that could kill us today if it ruptures but at one time was an evolutionary adaptation necessary for digestion.

Yesterday the therapy agency closed Sissy's case.  "She can behave at school, " they said, "so she has shown that she can use the therapeutic tools she's been given.  It means she chooses to behave poorly at home."  Thus, it is no longer a mental health issue.  It's a DJJ issue.  Should Sissy decide to toss her crap because, oh, taking a shower is such a hideous expectation, so hideous that I should be imprisoned for the rest of my earthly days, then I call the police on her.

Here's your hat, there's the door, what's your hurry? 

Alone I stand again, parenting my challenged children without support systems.  The years it took me to get support for them, the phone calls, the hours of talking to people, the mountains of paper work, the countless times I retold our family's story all of it for me to come full circle.  And Sissy's behaviors not much better than before we started.

The only difference is I grew a set of shiny brass balls in the process. 

Four years ago, when we elected a new president, Sissy hadn't spent one day in a hospital.  She was attending only a one hour group support session at the psychologist's office.  Four years ago I didn't know about RAD moms and support groups for me.  I didn't know that RAD was incurable.  I didn't have the slightest clue that I would need brass balls to weather the storms of life. 

This week we reelected the same president and it was but a blip on the radar of my life.  I know, there's lots people have to say about the election and the results and I should probably care at least some.  Truth is, no president has come to my neck of the woods, knocked on my front door and offered to listen to my family's plight, let alone lent a helping hand.  They haven't restrained a nearly 13 year old Sissy when she's been in a full rage, naked, in the bathroom and screaming at eardrum shattering decibel levels that she can't shower until she knows she'll get 11 minutes to do it instead of 7.  (She COULD spend seven minutes screaming about it though.)

I try not to let the hardness of my heart show on my face or in my posture.  I choose to let every day stand alone and speak for itself.  Because who knows, maybe the next 24 hours will be beautiful.  Hell, the next 10 minutes just might bless my socks off.  Wouldn't want to miss that precious 10 minutes of loveliness.  I roll my head on my shoulders, stretching out the tension in my neck.  I play uplifting music on the radio.  I laugh heartily every chance I get.  I remind myself to receive and give physical affection.  I make a concerted effort to text or call one person a day to ask how she is doing.  I use aromatherapy at bedtime to relax.  I watch old reruns of relatively "clean" sitcoms.  I hand quilt and english paper piece hexagons into dainty little flowers.  I pet the dogs and soak up the autumn sun.  I breathe in the crisp smell of dry leaves, then intentionally kick them up with my toes because the swishy sound of their crunchiness makes me giddy.  I sip coffee while playing mindless computer games in the few minutes each morning I have to myself.  I feed an old, blind Tennessee Walker that is recovering from colic.  I brush the dirt off the winter coat of his barn mate, a quarter horse that gives me hugs... when he's in the mood.

I'm not dancing.  I've forgotten how.
I'm not carefree.  Life is unpredictable.
I don't play.  There's no time. 
I won't sing.  Don't ask me.
I don't dream.  There's no point
I can't hope.  I have no reason to.
I don't blame. Truth is deliverance.
I won't recover.  I'll move forward.
I will survive.  I choose to.

I pray. That the next four years won't be as hellatious as the last four for distinctly different reasons than the conservative republican voter is praying.  Four years from now Sissy will be nearly 17.  I have a sneaking suspicion that whichever political party is seated in the white house as the head of the executive branch of our national government will still mean precious little to me.  Here's hoping my brass balls won't be sagging lower than my boobs by then.