She comes home tomorrow

And I can't wait.

She'll be earlier than planned unless the XH can find the missing bottle of meds.  I'm not entirely sure where it's gone, but an epileptic w/o meds is not good.   And, I was not available for him to come over and get the extras...laundry attire when one is home alone is not always appropriate for public view. : )

Joy to the world

Merry Christmas dear readers...you are out there, right?

As I write this, the rain is pouring down, and we're under a severe weather threat.  The metaphor is too good to pass up.

You see, my XH and I had the very real potential to come to thermonuclear blows this morning.  The Demie Diva has had enough of time without her Mama.  She made that abundantly clear on the phone last night.  She wants to come home.  Now.   Said sentiment was communicated to the XH, who basically announced that that was too bad, she was with him till Thursday.

I went to church last night ready to commit emasculation at a minimum.  The Demie Diva's favorite sitter was ready to bail me out.

Fortunately, this morning, she got lots of Mommy time.  I got to the XH's place about 6:30, and stretched out in his recliner to nap.  The favorite brother rolled out at about 7, and he and I agreed that it was absurd to be up BEFORE the kid whose Santa presents were under the tree!  Still and all, there was something rather sweet about sitting with this man-child who, at 18, is twice the age he was when I met his dad.  With adulthood may come something close to friendship, as he sees more than he lets on, and adores the sister who adores me.

With little feet hitting the floor and cries of "MOMMY", my world was once again complete.  Her stocking was full, full, full, and her pink scooter was perfect.  She tore into her presents with the glee of a five year old who'd had to wait forever.  Clothes from her dad.  Clothes.  Underwear.  And a dream lite for his house.  Apparently, now that she's gotten a bed at his house, she's supposed to have a dream lite just like the one that she no longer uses at ours.  eye roll 

Thank God I'd carried toys over to his house for her to unwrap - and that what was in her stocking was intended to be played with...you see, everything that should be in her bedroom at his house wasn't out of the boxes that they'd been packed in when he moved this summer.  That's right, friends, no toys out. No books.  NOTHING for a five year old to play with.  Seriously.

But, she asked Santa for two things - the scooter and a flashlight.  We played with the flashlight.  "Dr. Winkle" checked my eyes and ears and mouth.  Apparently, I had splitongueiliosis, and I needed to go to the children's room (The DD's room) and my mommy would leave me, and I'd be sad.  I told Dr. Winkle I had a daddy, so I'd be okay.  Her response..."You don't like dads."  Okay then.

The XH?

He just laughed.

She didn't want me to go - I didn't want to go.  I certainly wasn't afforded the courtesy of an invitation to dinner.  So, I will run into the office, print some papers to grade, and then...count the sleeps till my baby is home.

The most wonderful...

time of the year my foot.

Since last I wrote, my nanny quit, we've done two programs at two schools on the same night (17 miles apart), and sent the Demie Diva to her dad for the first time since...oh...LAST Christmas break!

She is sooo excited for Christmas.  When the first presents appeared under the tree, she was beside herself.  Then, the next ones showed up.  In true Demie Diva fashion, she tried to convince me one morning that she slept 10 sleeps so that she could open her presents right now.  We've frosted cookies, hired a new nanny, and made it to break.

The Demie Diva didn't want to go visit her dad's family.  "I will be sad."  How do you argue with that, exactly?  You don't.  Validate, but remind that there is an uncle who adores her, and cousins who are soooo much fun and have...INSTRUMENTS.    My heart broke when I called last night.  They were still on the road, and she told me that she wanted to come home tomorrow.  The ache in her voice was palpable, and I didn't sleep last night.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm an introvert, and I need the break to recharge.  I am also a mother, first, last, and always...and this whole situation is royally messed up.  I know it hurts and confuses her that her dad doesn't have time for her.  She didn't tell her teachers about going with dad - she focused on the fact that we're going to the Tundra after Christmas.  The Demie Diva made two candles - and chose that they both be for me.  She has no attachment to her dad.  He has no attachment to her, but by God he'll put on a show of superparent.

Maybe that's why I've been radio silent.  I want to post about the Garden of Light, and its beautiful symbolism.  I want to post about what an amazing angel she was in the church Christmas program.  I want to post about Sandy Hook, and life in a state where the Senators are out and out against an assault weapons ban.  Most of all, I want to share some of the Demie Diva's adventures in being 5, because, to be honest, she's a delight.

Instead, my gut is knotted with worry.  Worry about the damage I'll have to undo.  Worry about the length of time we'll be dealing with overnights before soccer season rears its ugly head and some pointed commentary on my part comes out.  Worry that I won't get another referral from a school up north, and that I'll be away from my family forever and ever.

Doesn't do me any good to worry about that which I cannot control, but it does help me plan for contingencies.  

I didn't sign up for this part of the deal.

Slacker, I know

I have been needled significantly over this one.

BUT...there's a good reason.

I've discovered doll-making.

Blame it on the Waldorf school.  I LOVE this place, BTW.

After much backing and forthing, I made the Demie Diva a doll.  It took forever.

It is sooo worth it.

There are all kinds of other reasons I've been busy, but mostly...this is it.

I'm considering opening an Etsy shop.  I realized that, as I watched people ooh and ahh, that I am actually something of an anachronism.  I put up produce in Ball Jars.  I embroider my own flower sack dish towels (doesn't everyone?)  And, apparently, I make a good doll.

Epilepsy Awareness

Two weeks ago, I approached my boss about taking some time in our weekly assembly to do a little bit of "Epilepsy Awareness Month" plugging.  You see, coming as it does, after pinktober, the little purple month gets rather ignored.

Who am I kidding?!  Epilepsy, despite the fact that it affects 1 in 26 Americans, is generally Misunderstood.  It's one of those things that we simply don't talk about.  Heaven forfend we should use the word "epilepsy" in a sentence, or talk about seizures, or mention AED-s (Anti-Epileptic Drugs) in polite company.  There's a stigma that still comes with epilepsy...the Demie Diva's teacher is reluctant to discuss it with her class - although I've got a second year to work on that one.

So, my child, with the misunderstood, yet all too frequently diagnosed, neurologic disorder, is the face of Epilepsy for many of the awesome teenagers with whom I work.

However, there are more who didn't, until last Monday, know that my baby is the girl with the silly muscles.

This is what I told them.

"I'm a mom.  Like all moms, I believe that my child is one in a million.  In April of 2011, the Demie Diva became 1 in 26, when she was diagnosed with epilepsy.  November is Epilepsy Awareness Month.  Unlike Breast Cancer, which is something you can fight, and something that can be defeated, epilepsy isn't as well understood.  When someone stares into space, they may be having a seizure.  When their muscles twitch like this.... they may be having a seizure.  When someone falls on the ground, they may not be clumsy...they may be having a seizure.  Last night, I told the Demie Diva that I was going to talk to "Mommy's Big Kids" about Epilepsy, and I asked her what she wanted me to tell you.  She said to tell you about ...'medicine....and my epilepsy doctor...and the machines...and I get scared".  My daughter is 1 in 26.  Become Educated.  Be Aware."

One step back...

Oh man.  My poor girl had a real kick in her faith last week.

It was Grandparents' Day at her school.  Everyone else had grandparents.  Hers didn't fly down for a one hour visit to the class.  It was HORRIBLE.

We will be fixing this error of adult perception NEXT Grandparents' Day, I assure you.

However, she hit a psychological wall as a result of this.  Bedtime, which had been easy, became again hell on earth.  The flopping, crying, and, at oh dark hundred, journey through the house to my bed have again returned.  As we argued, struggled, and ultimately had the screaming fit she so desperately needed, she said, brokenly..."But then I am alone."

Oh.  My.  God.

That was NOT what I expected.

She doesn't want to be at school because she was alone there when her friends had grandparents.  When she goes somewhere, all her friends have two parents.  The idea that Mommy comes back is firmly embedded in her head, but it's the idea that Mommy isn't there all the time that kills her.  I can't fight that one.

How do you fight the phantom parent?

The Demie Diva has a love/hate relationship with her dad.  She frequently articulates her dislike to people like the fabulous Ms. D.  She doesn't want to go with him, but watches for him out the window. She wants more than I honestly think he's able to give, and then, she takes it out on the one person who represents safety and security for her.

It's wearing me out.

Tuesday, I stayed home from work.  My body is in total shut-down mode.  There is an evil and recurrent virus making the rounds of the ninth grade.  It continues to bite me in the butt.  I slept.  The Demie Diva slept.  And, when we got up, we went round and round and round about what we were and weren't going to do/say to Mommy.

Eventually, I burst into tears and sobbed.  I can't be everything my child needs for me to be.  And, I can't fix it.

"Mommy," said a little voice.  "I know.  I will read a story, and it will make it better."

So, I'm human.  I lost it.

I also learn from my wiser friends...and while I don't have a Book of Important Papers, I did send someone to school with pictures of the Diva Grandparents and Diva Maman, Demie Diva, and Diva Chien tucked in her backpack.

Thank God, they worked.

Hmmmmm....

Well, that was eloquent, wasn't it?

You see, I'm feeling a bit hmmmm-ish these days.

I'm not entirely sure where the hmmmm-s come from.  Or, more accurately, I'm not entirely sure from where within a myriad of sources my hmmms-s are coming.  I've been thinking a lot about civility these days.  It may be because the folks at the Demie Diva's school are about head, heart, hands - and one of the central issues facing our country these days deals with head and heart.

I wasn't going to talk politics.  Not surprisingly, I'm a total liberal.  Good grief, I have a kid with an expensive medical condition, I'm from a state that still mourns Humphrey and Wellstone, and I support "rights" and "taxes" of all sorts.  I had the best preventative care of my life when I lived in the UK, land of the NHS.

But, I've noticed, in this season of political muckraking, soup kitchen photo ops, invocation of God in a Chief Justice's race, and so on, that we quit being nice to each other a long time ago.

I'm not sure when it happened, to be honest.  When did please and thank you actually go away?  When did lack of concern for our fellow human beings become the norm?  When did the ability to get off our butts and solve problems for ourselves cease?  Was it when we started blaming people who weren't as advantaged through no fault of their own for circumstances beyond their control?  Was it when we expected instant fixes to all our problems without an understanding of the GENERATIONS of work that went into getting us instant information?

Why am I thinking deep thoughts right now?  I've been thinking about the Demie Diva's birth mother.  I have no idea where this is coming from - but she is haunting my thoughts.   It may be because the Demie Diva is commanding her birth story right now.  We have to tell it every night at bedtime.  And, every night, the Demie Diva adds the things that are important to her to the "and A. wanted her baby to have things she knew she couldn't give her, like..."litany.  The list has gone from a swingset, a piano, and a doggy named Diva Chien to a table, a hula hoop, books, princesses, a bed, and so on.  It's an hysterical rendering of the things that are important to my daughter.

It's also a sad commentary on the things that I take for granted as "normal" for a little girl to have.  I buy on sale.  I buy on the cheap.  But I don't buy "cheap".  Nor do the Diva Grandparents.  And yet, in a different life, most of those things would be the Dollar Store versions.  No one would help the Demie Diva find her idiosyncratic way.  No one would pull her up short when she's being a tyrant because something has hurt her little heart, and she's lashing out.

You see, the Demie Diva's birthmother is having seizures again.  Seizures that, I'm sure, are due to head trauma that was inflicted on her by the Demie Diva's birthfather.  She needs surgery - but I'm not sure it'll happen.  She needed to be somewhere other than the resource room when she was in school - but it didn't happen because of socioeconomics and psycho-ed needs that weren't met.

And I'm back to the beginning.  When did we quit looking out for each other?  When did the programs that are supposed to help those who need help to help themselves fail them?  When did it become okay to trash those who are different than oneself for no cause other than because they're different?

I don't know.  I think, perhaps, we've always deluded ourselves this way.  But, with the presence of evangelical politicians, the voice of Fred Phelps and his flunkies, the hatred and antipathy toward our fellow man that has been nascent forever has emerged in full vitriol.

Maybe, just maybe, the generation that had "cocktail parties" had it right.  It's a little hard to hate those with whom you share food and drink.  Shame that we have so much loathing in our differences that we are unable to commune.

Why I love Waldorf education

I should be in my bed, since enabling my child to get a Waldorf education requires that I go to sleep way earlier than I used to, but these thoughts have been tumbling inside my head for days, and I MUST get them out.

I love Waldorf education because my five year old, who still believes in magic and the existence of fairies with all her heart, is taught a song about the Candle Fairy, and incorporates her presence into her day so much that now when we have mid-morning snack at home, we have tea and the Candle Fairy is invited to come too.  

I love Waldorf education because my kinesthetic learner is taught that movement is entirely okay, and that her natural curiosity must and will be satisfied by digging for worms.  Every. Morning.  

I love Waldorf education because she is valued for the gentle and sweet child she is at heart - and cuddles are more than okay.

I love Waldorf education because her imagination soars each and every day.  And now, when she comes home and plays with her media-related toys, all of her inherent mixing of universes (Princesses to Fairies to Little People) is augmented with the mythic archetypes she hears about during story time.  

(Sorry,  I'm not ditching the toys that are associated with the happy family trip to Disneyland!  I'm sure that makes me a less than ideal Waldorf parent, but I've seen what happens to totally media-unaware kids in non-Waldorf high schools, and goodness knows she's enough of an individual without that killing her in 8 years or so. )

I love Waldorf education because the child of my heart is allowed to run, climb, and play.  And when she wants to make a see-saw for her dolls out of her name puzzle and her shoe, I know where that lesson in physics was taught.  

Mostly, however, I love Waldorf education because it fits my very unique child.  Long term readers of the adventures of the Diva household know that I have worried - in spades - about what to do with a kinesthete who is also ADHD and has epilepsy.  I still worry.  

Just not about school.

Kindergarten - one month in

Yeah, yeah, I know.  I suck.  It's been a month since the first day of school (squee) and I haven't blogged about  it yet.

Partly, I think it's because I was waiting for the "trial period" to be over.  Partly, it's because I've been dealing with shenanigans at work.

If I'm being honest, though, it's because I didn't want to share anything until it was really going to stick.

Some of you remember that last year, for pre-K, I was sure I'd found the right place for the Demie Diva.  And then Epilepsy hit, kicked us in the hiney, the meds exacerbated her ADHD, it turned into a cluster-something-or-other of epic proportions, and I was finding a school at Thanksgiving.

Once bitten, I believe the phrase begins.

However, I am thrilled to report that that's not the case.

So...the Demie Diva's first month of Waldorf School....

It.  Freakin.  Rocked.

Really.  It did.

The Diva Grandma, as you recall, was here.  Which helped.  Immensely.  It allowed the Demie Diva's amazing teachers, Ms. S. and Ms. V., to see how tightly they're bonded.  It allowed the Demie Diva to transition with someone she LOVES at home at the end of a day, rather than a nanny.  It allowed me to have someone at home who is not affected by ADHD to see how the H*LL we get out the door in the morning, and make suggestions for me.

So, when the Diva Grandma left, the Demie Diva had a new nanny, Ms. D.  Mommy had a pattern to her days and weeks, and generally speaking, all was well.

What's our day like?

Bedlam.

The Demie Diva's needs are best met by a school that is 25 minutes across town - if, that is, I make all the lights.  And there isn't fog.  Or a wreck.  Or a stupid person driving 10 under the speed limit for who the hell knows what reason.  I drive it.  From work, since I live on campus, and back to work.

the XH hasn't offered.  Just sayin'.....

We got there early, early on the first day.  And there was no-one there.  No before care person where I'd been told there would be - for 15 minutes, the Demie Diva is with the EARLY people.  Then with the Nursery and Kindergarten extended care people.  THEN with Ms. S. and Ms. V.

Where, I might add, she thrives.  Her day starts with outside time, and the Great Worm Hunt.   My daughter thinks they're "CUUUUUTE".  She then plays on the playground, comes in for tea and the Candle Fairy song, and does circle and crafts before heading to lunch and extended care.

That's right.  Waldorf Kindergarten is half day.  Like it used to be when WE were kids....and Kindergarten was about discovery, and play, and learning to get along.  (I heart Waldorf)

So, the routine is established...and our first Playground Work Day was today.  (Big part of Waldorf is caring for our community.) The Demie Diva was with her dad, and I headed up to sweat and haul and shovel sand at the playground.   Since they have to pay to open the building evenings and weekends for events like the workday and conferences, the Kindergarten teachers decided to do conferences today, rather than Thursday night as scheduled, so I got to find out right now how the little dear is doing.  oh yeah...and my XH came too.

She is passionate about everyone getting their fair share of attention.  She LOVES dress-up.  She is so excited when she gets a turn to help with something, her face lights up.   Craft and painting are favorites.  The Demie Diva is improving at listening and at waiting for someone else to share.  EVERYTHING is "WHY"...and sometimes, she actually waits to think about why she's asking why!  But tidy-up is NOT her favorite part of the day!  She's got two close friends - one of whom is in her second year of Kindergarten (Waldorf won't promote unless they're 6 by June 1, and they can start at 4) and has informed her teachers that the Demie Diva is her new best friend.

The trial period - no one said anything about it.  It came.  It went.  She's won over all the teachers.  Everything they were worried about was irrelevant.

As I hauled sand, and leaves, and plants, and whatever, I realized that I was surrounded by like-minded folks.  It felt rather like it did when I walked onto the campus of my alma mater for the first time.  Tetris, international travel, children's questions answered with thought and concern....yep.  I have found my people too.

Would the real grown-up please stand up?

I've had a rough few weeks.  Dealing with some shenanigans at work when it's early in the year does not bode well for the remaining 32 weeks.  Dealing with those shenanigans when some of them are the result of adults (me included) not acting like adults...that part is just challenging.

You see, super nanny quit after one day.

I was scrambling for care.  Got it lined up with a little public shaming of my XH on the part of a colleague who knew full well that he hadn't offered to help when he knew that I was without care on a couple of days of classes.  Then, thank God, Diva Grandma showed up just in time for the Demie Diva's first week of Kindergarten.

GASP.

Kindergarten, y'all.

So, here I am, 43 years old, with a kindergartener, and Mommy saving my backside.  This was, however, wonderful, since I was able to show the Demie Diva's teachers the level of attachment those two have.  It was wonderful because the Diva Grandma got to see the amazing place where her adored darling is going to school.  And then...she went home, and Ms. D. started taking care of my child.

Now, given where I live, the idea of employing an African-American woman to care for my child gave me pause.  Don't flame me folks...she's awesome, a college student, and totally totally gets the Demie Diva's energy, love of outside, passion for pretend, and so on.  However, the awareness of the stereotype is so all over me on this.  I would have been torn in an ironic fit of knots, except that well...she's perfect.

To recap...my mother has bailed me out - again.  My colleagues have helped me out of a child-care crunch with the public calling-out of my XH.  Other adults in my world need their blocks knocked together.  And in the middle of this...I have a five year old whose stuffed animals want to go to Minnesota.

I give up.  I'll blog more about her first day of kindergarten later.  BUT...this shenanigan stuff has to quit.

Commiseration with friends: The Hunt for After-School Care

This has been one mother of a ride.

At the same time I was declaring my frustrations about hiring Ms. Poppins - both in this venue and all over Facebook - a friend from college was doing the same.  He claimed that he had emailed more 20 year old women than a man his age had any business doing.

This may be my newest indicator of middle age: those with whom you drank copious quantities of beer and played hearts till you were sober while in your twenties are now, twenty years later, those with whom you commiserate about finding someone willing to work for you for 10-15 hours/week.

For the record, I still can't play hearts in a state of anything other than youthful inebriety.

I thought I'd found someone.  Three interviews, 20 plus "cold calls", and so forth...candidate #1 just had no sass to her soul.  Candidate #2 was trained as an educator and "got" the Demie Diva on an educational level that was AWESOME.  Candidate #3 showed up with her roots showing, in what an older generation would have called "hot pants", and with what one might kindly term "cake up" a couple shades too dark for her skin tone.  Needless to say, Candidate #2 got the offer - and kept me hanging.

I finally pushed it...and got the "careful consideration, not a fit" - yeah.  The irony, of course, is that she is a teacher without a job, in my specialty, and I'm a department chair.  Oh, beauty.  She shot herself in the foot soooo badly.  Still and all, everything happens for a reason.

My reason is a woman about my age, who we shall call Suzy Chapstick.  Well, not really, but baby, Mary Poppins she isn't.  She's got a country accent, and some Southern bits of vernacular (fixin' to, for instance) that are enough to make my educated Yankee soul cringe.  Except that she understands my daughter well enough to give her time to warm up to her.  She speaks Schnauzer; it's a language.  The Diva Chien is a small person.  She's arty, liberal, and as ADHD as I am.  She doesn't want reimbursement for miles, and will push a vacuum and/or dust cloth around my house when the Demie Diva is otherwise occupied.

By the time she left my house the day we met, the Demie Diva was having her read to her, and was snuggled on the couch.

This all starts tomorrow, since I have a 1/2 day of meetings Monday and Tuesday this week.

Sigh.

I've had fun with my daughter during the last month of our summer.  I am NOT ready to bring that fun to an end.

I haven't said that in about 15 months.  Isn't it marvelous?

Mary Poppins???

I am going to hire a nanny.  I said it.

Little liberal me, with the blue spandex superwoman costume....a freakin' nanny.

Laugh all you will, but bear with me as I explain the changin' times....

The Demie Diva starts Kindergarten this year.  She will be attending a Waldorf School.  It will be quiet - she's thrilled - and designed to help her find her way as best she can.  (Assuming she makes it for the 30 days she gets to learn to follow the rules!)  They really only do 1/2 day K, but the students can go till 3 in the enhanced program.  With early drop-off so that I can get back to work, that range of time encompasses the ADHD meds' efficacy.

She has a boost that we can administer.  Of course, the instructions will have to be time specific...and, oh, wait, during the regular school day...which ends at 3...

Yeah, this falls under not feasible.

I can't leave work till 4.  Her school is 30 minutes away.  This is a recipe for disaster.

OR....

I can hire someone who can pick her up...every day.  The same someone who can then bring her home (where it's quiet) and play with her till I get home.  Who can stay with her on the nights (one of every seven school nights this year) I have study hall duty.  Who can be there (possibly) during those weeks that I am in school and she is not so that the NOISE at her preschool doesn't have to be thrust at her while they take care of her for the couple weeks I need drop in care.

I know I need to move north.  Shut up, Bicicleta Mamma.  That isn't happening this year, so this is my other option.


Now, really, for her to do that would set her back...and for all that my summer's been majorly ADHD, it has also been a summer of consistency and peace for the Demie Diva.  Why would I screw that up with something that I KNOW will have an adverse impact?

The XH is not as on board with this as I'd like him to be (for the Demie Diva's sake) but that is more because hiring a nanny is something I will do that has the potential to demonstrate to everyone his own inability to step up beyond what is convenient for him.  It also will force him to  necessitate that he hands over the booster seat that I bought for carpool last year and go out and get his own. (heh, heh, heh)


Am I at all confident in this course of action?  Oh yes.  Given that I have felt my stress level reduce simply with the THOUGHT of not having the Demie Diva in extended care in the afternoon, I would say that's a heck yeah!

Now, these people just need to respond to my phone calls!

Paradoces are fun

wow.  are you underwhelmed by two posts in consecutive days? 

Don't be.  This one is kinda gross.  

One of the coolest things about parenting a child with special needs is that perspective becomes what we might call skewed.

A bit of background.  DD had a godawful day at my parents' place.  A screaming, contrary, ugly, horrible day.  Alexander's day was NOTHING to this one.   (Sorry, Judith Viorst, but it wasn't!)  We both could see the Demie Diva in the alternative school, the "resource room", the ... NOWHERE that a child of her native smarts needs to be, to be honest.

It was also as if I were seeing her birthmother's educational background unfolding in front of me.  And, to be honest I was damned if I was going to see that start to unfold...or unravel.  This was one of those moments adoptive parents have, in which they understand...as if someone has hit them with a 2x4 to the head bold from the blue...WHY their child is theirs.  

The puzzle of the child's brain has always been fascinating to me in my professional life.  Figuring out how kids learn, and how they succeed in school has always been one of the greatest joys of my chosen calling.  

But I never thought I'd have to bring it all to bear raising my child.  sigh

After the terrible day, I called her neurologist and said "we've got to do something".  So...devil drug reduced again.  Lovely drug adjusted.  And thank God for high school classmates.  My current favorite is now a pediatric neurologist in the Hudson Valley.  I've been bouncing things off of him because..well, he's younger than the Demie Diva's neurologist which makes him a tad more receptive to the "gray" area of complementary stuff.

B6 baby.  Residual rages have stopped.  Stinker hissy fits are now age appropriate.  She's starting to follow directions.  AND...she's wet the bed a couple of times.

I know...eew.

Here's the paradox:  

The Demie Diva has not slept deeply since her epilepsy manifested itself.  Since fatigue is one of her triggers, her poor little brain just fires away.  Fatigue, as I know from my own ADHD brain, also exacerbates ADHD.  Recipe for horrible days in the making.

If she's wet the bed, then she's sleeping deeply.  If she's sleeping deeply, then she's resting.  If she's resting, then her brain is quiet.

Paradoces.  

Gotta love 'em.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled life

This blog was interrupted for a brief vacation to what should have been the pleasantly cool state of my birth.  Okay, cool is relative.  I understand that for some of my readers 85 degrees wouldn't be cool...but for me...down here in 90-something and humidashell with dewpointsthatmakeyousweatat5am   85 is lovely.

Shame it didn't happen.

106 in Minnesnowta?  Okay then.

The Demie Diva and I left on our birthday, and were at the Diva Grandparents' home by 11 am.  And napped (with a battle of wills) by 3.  The pilot wished the Demie Diva a Happy Fifth Birthday as we arrived in Minneapolis, and her eyes were HUGE - how on EARTH did he know?

Once we got to Grandma's house, it was non-stop family.  The Awesome Auntie and Analytical Uncle had to postpone B's three-year birthday party due to a plethora of end of May conflicts.  So...between June 30 and July 4, we had FOUR big social engagements - three of which involved my sister's house, one of which involved my parents' home with a sitter.

I've mentioned elsewhere, my sister is a very calm person, whose structured life is rigid to the point of documenting bodily functions of the baby, M, and measuring the milk intake of B.  OCD much?  This is great, but, really, really stressful on both the Demie Diva and the Diva Maman.  There is a plethora of things to explore, new toys to play with, a basement with princesses requiring dancing (that they are part of my sister's Doulton collection and accessible makes me GRAY, I tell you) and so on.  The idea that I raised my voice and snapped at the Demie Diva ... well, suffice to say I was chastised with my name and a tone of voice that would make a five year old cry.

Bless the Diva Grandma, who sat with my sister one day, and told her flat out that she had NO idea what life with the Demie Diva and her various issues was like.  I think I may hug my mother.  Or my father...both of whom (with the weird synergy of a 45-year married couple) told me flat out "I don't know how you do it.  You're doing a great job."

Coming from the people who raised me, that is way cool.

Also way cool?

Wading pools.  The 1950-s era suburban park pools with the 1 foot depth, the peeling paint, and the ability to make a five year old think she's Dara Torres.  There aren't very many left, and one is a few miles from my parents' home.  We were able to take the Demie Diva and B to the pool.  Each got braver.  Each outdid themselves - and tried to outdo each other.

And when she got home, the Demie Diva looked at me and said "Mom, we need to go back to Minnesota."

Workin' on it, babe.

For the love of a dog

Well that was a catchy title, wasn't it?

That would be what we English teacher types call a hook.  And look, it worked.  You're here and reading.

Dog puke.  Oh, honey, let me tell you about dog puke. cha-ching!  That's what we were greeted by after supper on Saturday the 9th.  That's right.  The day before my last post.  And then we had MORE on the 10th.

MORE I tell you. The sound of canine retching will forever ring in my ears.

Oh...the canine?  She's a miniature schnauzer...Diva Chien I think we'll call her.  She certainly is that.

She's also the Demie Diva's BFF.  The dog, in this instance, chose which one of us needs her more, and from day one, it wasn't yours truly. The Diva Chien  keeps the Demie Diva focused.  Keeps her calm.  Serves, to all intents and purposes, as something of a therapy dog.

So, when the revisiting of doggie dinner emesis started, the Demie Diva was a little worried.  So, to be honest, was I.

Monday, we went to the vet for fluids, blood work, barium x-rays, and wait for it...more fluids.  The blood work revealed pancreatitis.

Repeated same on Tuesday.

cha-ching!


Wednesday, the barium STILL had failed to move from the gut.  The vet was more than a little surprised when I said..."crack her belly".  I'm pragmatic.  She's got a blockage.  The x-ray is pretty damn clear on that.

cha-ching!!!


Except that there wasn't a blockage.  Nothing there.  At.  all.

Biopsies were taken.....sing it with me...

CHA-CHING!!!!


And, we waited.  Thursday, we pulled the catheter, and hoped like hell the dog would eat.  She did.  Friday was if-y.

Saturday, she puked, and we were sent home with a bag of Ringer's, some sharps, and instructions on how to give sub-cutaneous fluids.  That's right.  I hung a bag on a cord cleat and ran Ringer's into my dog.

Sunday, she defecated tarry stools.  Dammit.

To the doggie ER we went....

Oh please, oh please, oh please...   Sorry, that was my Visa, asking to be relieved of the constant pain.


And after an overnight stay at the dog hospital, just like Curious George, we took the Diva Chien back to the vet...where...the biopsies were in.

Don't tell me that angels don't watch over even our littlest babies.  That damn x-ray said clear as day that she had a blockage.  The ONLY reason they opened her up was because she "had a blockage".

Instead, she had no intestinal motility whatsoever.  So they took biopsies...one of which indicated a type of Irritable Bowel Disease, which, left untreated, can lead to nasty stomach cancers that don't get detected till it's too late.  

Meanwhile, the Diva Grandparents were spending my inheritance cruising the Baltic, and checking in by email.  The Awesome Auntie is totally overwhelmed by the reality of two smart kids, and is coping as best she can.  This does not include calling randomly to let her sister fall apart, however.

The Demie Diva was handling it far better than a five year old (almost) should.  The extent of the stress was only seen when I noticed seizures...dammit...when the dog wasn't getting better.  That's my girl.  Emotional upset manifests in myoclonus.

So....to recap.  My Visa screams in pain at the sight of the vet's office.  My daughter loves the dog so much that the stress this mess was causes triggered seizures.  I now am buying special food to prevent a recurrence of pancreatitis, have to give the dog prednisone for.freakin.ever, and am seriously contemplating a Gastroenterology consult while I'm in God's Country since the vet school is 5 minutes from my parents' home.

Short version?

I have a special needs kid.

I have a special needs dog.

Seriously?  What else???

Mama Guilt

Yep.  I have it in spades.

I'm looking at the clock, and instead of "oh my sweet baby will be back soon" all I can think is "aw crap".

The simple fact is that she hasn't spent enough time with her dad, and, after his move and her fifth birthday, that's going to start to happen more because she will finally have a room that's hers at his house...and the law in the great state of Alabama says I have to.

Now, on the one hand...this is FABULOUS.  See aw crap above.  I need nap time on days when the dog has me up all night because she's puking her guts out every hour and a half.

On the other hand...this is NOT good.  She will have major transition issues...and on top of a new school, that's going to make my life hell.  I know this.  I know this surely as I know that my name is Diva Maman.

Could I go back to sleep now, and not worry about this?

Spades, I tell you.

Mama Guilt in spads.

Beyond Bonkers: Parenting Your ADHD Child.

Y'all, this is quite clearly a book that someone needs to write.  Of course, that someone can't be the parent of an ADHD child...we're too busy going beyond bonkers.

Dear Lord.  I'm having a heckuva time figuring this stay-at-home parent thing out.  And, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure I'm cut out for it.  Keeping her on a schedule...not letting her just rot her brain in front of the television...these are HARD things to do.

I'm a little ADHD, and a whole lot unwinding myself.


I'm not sure which is doing it to my inability to function more...the unwinding - cause I was  Mach 10 till the end of last week, and lovin' every minute - or my own disability.  I suspect the latter.  It's just WAY too easy for me to get distracted here at home, without the structure of bells at school.

That may, actually, be why I know so many phenomenal teachers who are ADHD...structure forced on us, and the primary unteachable skill of the job involves being able to think on the fly.

But, wait, I digress.  See...that's been my whole week.  And I NEEDED it.

I think she NEEDED it too.  But now, watching her, I'm not entirely sure that we don't need a lower dose of meds for the summer.  She needs meds...there's NO function without them, thanks to the epilepsy devil drug.  But when it's just she and I...I'm not sure.

The only way to assess that may very well be to ...gasp...impose a school-like schedule on the two of us.  You know..."music from x to x; reading time from y to y; and so on" until I'm structured.  I HATE that.

Not the structure part...I can feel my control over my world starting to slip, and I need it too.

No, what I hate is that my child can't just be a child.  I don't want to over program her.  The days of knocking on a door and running around the neighborhood are gone, though, cause even the friends who claim they don't over program their kids actually do.    BUT she HAS to have structure imposed from without.

And that, my friends, is not what summer should be about - even for an almost kindergartener.

So...where is this ADHD free-association going?  The Demie Diva needs a schedule.  I'm not an early childhood specialist, so I welcome suggestions.  I need a schedule, which, to be honest, is easier said than done given the vagaries of a nearly five  year old and her inconsistent other parent.

I'll cite you as a source if I ever write my book...

Lord, it's going to be a long summer.

Summertime

At last.

School for me actually ended a week ago.  Graduation was the Friday of Memorial Day weekend.  The party was had.  The mosquitos ate me alive.  I drank and ate and generally had a blast being with adults.

But then came the greatest week of my summer...that isn't really summer.  Camp.  It's got a longer name, but in the interests of my semi-anonymity, I'll just call it Camp.

It really is a proper noun.

Or an imperative.

A moral imperative that is.

You see, every year, the students at our high school run a four day day camp for rising 3rd and 4th graders from a school in southwest Birmingham.  These kids are from families that are, by and large, working poor.  They can't afford a camp opportunity.  With the help of their principal, 20 or so honor roll students come to our school for fun.  We make new friends.  We hug and cry when the week is gone.

Pretty much, my friends, it's camp.  Except that our students LITERALLY run it.  There are four adults involved in the planning - liaising with the school, coordinating permissions, calling off-site vendors to see if they're involved again this year.  A paid staff of four to six high school kids plan it.  Schedule it.  Solve the problems as they crop up.  Keep the ADHD kid out of the dining hall without shoes...you get it.

And the rest of the counselors?  They volunteer.  They apply.  They are selected.  And then, they work their butts off playing with kids whose home lives are foreign to our children of comfort, if not privilege.  They sweat, get jumped on, play kickball, and ride the school bus to and from Birmingham proper.  It's ALABAMA my friends.  It's nasty hot.  And these 20 or so kids do it for no pay, getting up every morning on their first week of summer vacation, to be back at their school at 8:30 am to play with a bunch of sweaty pseudo-tough babies from Birmingham.

This year, C, in her first camp, was in tears when she read the campers' inscriptions on their memory books: "Culver Creek (an alias)  is the best place in the world, and no one wants to leave." You get the idea.

H, also in her first camp, saw me on the last day and said "You were right.  I'm exhausted.  It's amazing.  I'll be back."

And then, there was the Director of Admission, who came down the morning of the last day and said..."I got emails on this camper.  I've been spoken to by two of your counselors, one paid staffer, and three adults...where is he, and how do we get him back on campus next year...and the year after."  When this little boy left, he left with admissions materials slipped into his bag, a brief explanation of what a scholarship was, and promises to about five of us that "I won't let you down."

How far we have come, in this town that was once known as Bombingham.  How far we still have to go, when urban blight runs rampant at the heart of the Civil Rights Movement.

I did a Flat Stanley project for a friend's son today.  I took the Demie Diva down to Sixteenth Street Baptist Church and Kelly Ingram Park.  I explained to my almost kindergartener that not very long ago, there were mean guys who didn't want her to be friends with J.  because his skin was brown.  The park we were in wasn't a playing park.  It was a praying park;  men like Dr. King and Rev. Shuttlesworth said "no" and at the church that's kitty corner, Mr. McNair's little girl and three others died because mean guys bombed it.

My child processed this as best she could.

To her, it boiled down simply to this..."The King was a nice man.  He wanted the mean guys to quit being mean.  And now he's DAID" (best redneck accent on the last please) 


The Civil Rights Movement according to my almost kindergartener.

Mean people suck.  Nice people don't.

Something for nothin'

Bear with me.  This has been something that's been making me NUTS for a while now.  And it's not that I am intending to disparage those parents for whom a preschool "graduation" is a significant event to be celebrated with FIVE mylar balloons, ONE bouquet of flowers, and every shirt-tail relative known to their child. ... but I have no doubt I will disparage them.

The Demie Diva graduated from preschool last night.  With cap, gown, and tassel.  And, as I watched my child doing the songs, overwhelmed by the excitement of her brother coming to her graduation, all I could think was...uff da.  Demie Diva's brother said it best, as he approaches his own high school graduation on Wednesday night..."Man, when did preschool graduation become a big deal?!"

At the same time, Soccer Dude, that we began to tell children that doing what was expected of them would merit constant affirmation of their worth as special, extraordinary, and unique human beings whose lives could never be  - nay, MUST never be - pock-marked by failure.

As a result, we have a generation of score-obsessed children and young adults, who never believe that they are less than perfect.  The cost to our society is one that, quite frankly, terrifies me.  I see it on a daily basis in my classroom...students whose ability is beyond considerable but who are afraid to take a chance as writers and thinkers because they might not get an A.  As a result, when I throw a creative assessment at them, they shut down and say "I can't".  OR, they have to be told how to be creative...or precisely what they can do,  when the assignment only tells them what they may not do.

I went to an amazing conference in March.  One that validated what I've always believed.  Kids can succeed, but it is my job as a teacher to make things fair.  NOT equal.  It's not fair to ask a short person to reach something on an upper shelf without providing a stepladder.

My job is to be the stepladder.  To teach all children...not just mine...that failure is okay.  That having to think outside the box requires a growth mindset, and that they'd by all that's holy and sacred better have it when they enter the workplace.

Our country is failing its students by demanding a one-size fits all classroom.  Our country is failing its students by telling them that they're all intellectually brilliant; the upper end is held back, and the lower end struggles to meet minimum standards.  Our country is failing its students by teaching them that "everyone" is outstanding at everything.

Because, guess what? As evidenced last night...my child sucks at staying in her seat, but she's fabulous at loving people and being compassionate.  

I know which adult I want her to be.

Ramblings - it's been a strange couple weeks...

What can I say?  I've been busy.  It's May.  I'm a teacher.

First...my beloved auntie's memorial was, as my mother put it, clearly not planned by the Hostess herself.  While I was sad that I wasn't with my family because that's what we do, I was so happy that I had the goodbye on the terms I did.

On that end, the Demie Diva is obsessed with picking flowers.  All of my flowers.  Right now, however, she is obsessed with my big, yellow, puffball marigolds.  Not to pick, however.  Oh no.  She calls them "Aunt C. Flowers".  When we were Skypeing with the Diva Grandparents on the day of my aunt's service, the Demie Diva came to the camera with a marigold she'd picked, held it up and said "Look Grandma, I picked this for Aunt C.".  My mother smiled through her tears.  The other day, with four of said flowers in bloom, the Demie Diva looked at them and said "Look, Mommy!  FOUR Aunt C. Flowers".

This makes me smile.  The Demie Diva doesn't know the story of my aunt earning the nickname "Marigold Boobs".  But, somehow, these puffball marigolds have become associated in my daughter's mind with my beloved aunt.  And you know what?  That's fabulous.

It's the end of the school year.  I'm tired.  We've had to deal with: senior pranks that weren't very funny; end of the year malaise; and an asinine law enacted by the state in which I live that is going to make the beginning of the school year a week later, and will keep our kids with public school siblings - and my colleagues with public school children - in school a week longer than said public schoolers.  Despite this, we could still cut NINETEEN days out of our school year, and be in compliance with state requirements.

NINETEEN days y'all.  If we weren't starting a week later than originally planned, we'd be about to cut out TWENTY-FOUR days.  And you wonder why I insist that the Demie Diva will NOT be in public school despite her federally protected needs?!

Which brings me to the next bit of insanity:  school for the Demie Diva.

Yeah, I know I told you we had it scheduled.  The problem is...what we were going to do is not an option.

So...in the middle of exam week, I get to visit two schools.   Both in the company of my XH.  One in the company of the Demie Diva, who's going to get to do an observation in a classroom while we do our thing.

To recap:  Last week of classes.  Exams.  Comments.  Graduation.  All of that is in the "must" list for work.  
Two school visits.  Decisions.  Pre-K graduation for the Demie Diva.  With cap and gown.

But that's another post.

"Who taught her that?!"

My friends, we are almost through another school year.  I can NOT believe I have lived in the Deep South for 8 years.  That's right; almost three times longer than I've lived in any other Southern state.  The state to which I swore I would never move.

And here I am.  Contract signed for another school year.

The Demie Diva seems to be in a better place.  That may be because, for all the poignance of the trip North, she got to see that Diva Grandma is no longer "broken".  Grandmas who have knee replacements three weeks prior to the March visit are utterly rejected for all of April by the Demie Diva.

Rejected I tell you.

My girl would have nothing to do with her grandma.  Didn't want to speak on the phone.  Didn't want to talk on the computer.  No way.  No how.  Not happening.

It was so good to have her not want to leave Minnesota.  So good to have her sad that she was leaving Grandma and Grandma couldn't come with us on the airplane.

That was normal.

However, we're flying up on our birthday.  (For the uninitiated...the Demie Diva and Diva Maman share a birthday.)  We will spend almost TWO full weeks with the Diva Grandparents.  It will rock.  She will be sad.  We will come back to zoo camp.

But I keep coming back to the rejection of the Diva Grandma.  This does not augur well for when her dad wants her to be who she isn't.  Or when she is faced with an adult for whom she has no respect...oh, wait...we did that this school year.  It was hell.  

How much of it is one neurologic issue or another, I don't know.  How much of it is her cussed little personality...I don't know.  What I do know is that if she doesn't start catching flies with honey rather than with vinegar, she's in for hella road.

How do I know?

She's just like her mother.

A wish for my child...

My wish for my child today is that she thinks of how her actions impact others.

May she have the moral fiber to step up when her peers are being asshats and not only leave but also tell someone so that asshattery doesn't result in injury or worse.

May she have the courage, even in her 40s, to admit the error, learn from it, and move on rather than trying to make those who call her on it feel that they are at fault.

May she have the grace to love others with the unconditional nature of my Crazy Aunt.

My beautiful, wonderful, awesome aunt lost her battle today.  She is with her parents and siblings.  They were waiting for her, standing vigil at her bedside.

I know that isn't received orthodoxy, but know what?  I'm a lousy Lutheran sometimes.  I'm ethnically Celt.  That makes me a little spooky.

As I stood at her bedside on Monday morning, I could feel my uncle, the plasterer, behind me.  I knew he was there.  The fact that he has been gone since 1981 was irrelevant.  My favorite uncle was keeping vigil for his little sister.

This is the aunt who drove us nuts.  She finished all our damn sentences...became an expert on everything and nothing.  Counted the milligrams in every single pill she took - cause all milligrams are created equal. She could NOT stand Democrats (no comment) and swore up and down that Rick Santorum was the ... you get the idea.    Of course, she also thought that as a teacher with a terminal degree, I earned six figures...(eye roll).

This is also the aunt who made baby caps and sweaters for all of our children - who made an afghan for my sister's new baby, and did it knowing she was dying.  She never shut up.  To the point that, at another family funeral, my mother started things off by saying "and if my sister, C, would sit down and be quiet we'll get started".

Whatever other stories I may have about my aunt, I know that I will never regret flying up last weekend.  I made it.  I said everything I wanted to say. The Demie Diva went to see her, and knows that the person she didn't recognize was still the same CA in her heart.

So, I'll love her forever.  I'll like her for always.  As long as I'm living, my auntie she'll be.

Stirring Goonishness

Some days, I love my job.

The title of today's post, believe it or not, is totally work-related.

You see, I teach and live at a small boarding/day school.  This makes my life a teensy bit more interesting than it ordinarily would be, simply because I see my students at intervals that non-boarding school people find totally unacceptably intrusive interesting.

On Sunday, as I was coming off a weekend on duty, I encountered a couple of my freshmen...who, in the spirit of 14 and 15 year olds everywhere, started giving me grief.  They determined, incontrovertibly and without any malice whatsoever, that their job was totally to "stir the goonishness" in my world.  They were the stirrers of goon.  And so on.

What's not to like?

These are the kids who make 5'5" wooden statues of a honey badger as the primary "artifact" of an ancient civilization.  Who announce IN CLASS that Romeo really really needs to grow a pair.  The ones who manage to devour an entire batch of Rice Krispie treats, or 2/3 of a batch of fudge in 15 minutes.  They ask after my niece, and are smart enough not to give me grief when fatigue is all over my face.  They come into my office, announce that it's all "insert-name-here's fault" and proceed to tell me of their latest harmless and silly shenanigans.

What more can I ask for in terms of a place to go each day, visit the texts I love and do it with teenagers who are going to turn into seriously cool adults?

I can find, yet again, that support is there.

I have to go home this weekend.  It's literally and metaphorically, a flying visit.  The CA is going to lose her battle.  For reasons that escape me, but work for her, there will be none of the traditional rites of grief.  So, I'm heading home for closure before her book is irrevocably and finally closed.  I have no days left.  My boss said "go".  I needed coverage during the busiest time of year.  My colleagues stepped up.  I had classes covered by 10 am.  I had students who could tell I was tired and fragile and didn't stir the goonishness....

until it was time to insult Romeo's masculinity.  Then, my friends, the goon...she was stirred.

Distance

Sometimes, being a single parent just plain sucks.

This is one of those weeks.

She's being particularly freakin annoying challenging this week.  The battles seem to have escalated over the trivial.  (and don't tell me to let it go...one of these is brushing teeth, and that kid already has a crown) With the escalation has come an increase in my own  insanity frustration.  Why on earth can't this child follow directions?!

I know.

She has ADHD.

That is what it means.

Duh.

I have it too.  That makes it trebly frustrating.


The thing is, when you're battling your child for dominance  ... control of the small corner of your universe... oh screw it.  She's four going on five.  It's ALL about who's in charge of her life right now.  And, however much she may like to try to delude herself into thinking that it is she...'tis, in fact, I.

What's that sound?  My head...against a cinder block wall.  Actually, it helps the headache.


But, when you are the parent of a special needs child, you need a break in which you do nothing.

Add to this general level of suckage the fact that the Awesome Auntie just had fab child #2, and according to the Demie  Diva, this child is no longer "puhtend" because she is "out of Auntie H's tummy."  The Awesome  Auntie did five weeks on an antepartum unit because of a complication.  The new child (a girl...) had to arrive at 35 weeks...and did so, at 5 lbs, 14 oz.  She is beautiful.  I've seen pictures, but I am DYING to get my hands on her.

and speaking of dying....my aunt (I have two - one is Bossy, the other Crazy) is not doing well.  My mother is in tears on the phone today as she tells me that the cancer that Crazy Aunt fought like hell against is winning and the ascites have started.  She said goodbye to me when I was in God's country in March.  I said goodbye to her.

And yes, as I type this, there is a Beatles song running through my head.

So, to recap.  Single parenthood sucks at times because: no one to spell you so that you aren't reduced to cinder-block wall headache therapy; no other adult with whom to celebrate the joys of life; no other adult on whom to fall apart.

When I put the Demie Diva to bed tonight, she wanted to read Love you Forever.  And then, as I rocked her back and forth, back and forth, I had to sing "I'll love you forever,/I'll like you for always/ As long as I'm living/My baby you'll be."

For that one moment...maybe it didn't suck as much as it had the rest of today.

Four about FOUR.

The Demie Diva may have the longest stretch of being four of any child known to man, woman, or child.

Or it may just be me.

1.  We lost a stretch of nine to twelve months.  Think about that.  How much growth and development happens at that stage?  Learning address and phone number.  Learning how to interact in a group setting where more than parallel play happens.  Learning that you will have to suck it up and follow the rules - even when the rules are in fact utter bollocks.  And those are just the holes I'm seeing filled in.

2. Four going on five is fun.  Seriously, that child is hilarious.

3. When she isn't driving me crazy.  Which she is.  Often when she's being hilarious.  Taking her Focalin has become a battle of epic proportions (and I hate mornings without the battle, so they're truly EPIC).  The other day she announced "That's not ice cream.  That's my consestrashun medicine."  To which the logical maternal counter "Yes, and I've taken mine, so you need to take yours" had the following effect:  "Hmmmm.... let me consider it."

Consider it.  Oh, I consider it daily.  I consider a lot of things daily, as that child of mine is a stinker of epic proportions.  She is going to fight for it to be HER way all the time.  All. The.  Time.

4.  This is where personality really comes out.  And while I see nurture all over her makeup, the inability to comply with rules simply because you have to, dammit if you want to function in a civil society, makes my rule following brain explode. That, my friends, is nature.

I know some of her birthmother's history.  What I know scares me for the future of this child.   The effect of pediatric epilepsy on her BM's educational history is a no-brainer to see.  The overmedication is clear - and so, if you read the letters we get periodically, is the ADHD that's NEVER been diagnosed.  When I look back at the last year of the Demie Diva's life I see so many places where I know that she was meant to be MY child.

Could someone else have puzzled out the connections between meds and behavior?  Sure.  Could someone have pushed for an early diagnosis of the ADHD?  Sure.  Could another parent have had the pediatrician I did who was all about early meds?  Sure.  Would it have all happened with what, in hindsight was a little bit of pushy parent (shut up ... and you know who you are) and a whole lot of instinct plus professional knowledge of a lot of people?  I don't know.

I do know that holding her for another year of pre-k is a good idea.  I watch things click, and the frustration she feels when she doesn't WANT to tell me (again) that y-o-u is "you" (why the hell should she, after all...she knew it a page ago), and the battle she has with herself every single time she stops to follow a rule or an adult request that she and I both know is complete and utter bollocks.....oh dear lord she'll be a cool adult.

But her childhood is going to be a spirited challenge!

Whose story is it?

Unlike many of my fellow adoption bloggers, I don't have the "obvious" factor at work in my public dynamic.  Quite the contrary in fact, since the Demie Diva resembles Diva Grandma and that side of my genetic makeup significantly.  There's little doubt when the three of us are together that we are three generations of a family.

Where I run into difficulty, however, is that the Demie Diva now is beginning to learn that she grew in her birthmother's tummy and in my heart.  And so, I'm wrestling with how to tell people that it's time - even when they are proud of our story...and they are - to quit saying "you do know she's adopted".

Part of my issue with this is that I am the parent of a special needs child, who is already identified as different because of her bracelet.  She has to stand out; it could, literally be a lifesaving difference.  I don't want her to stand out more, particularly as my nephew and soon-to-be niece are small brunet(te) versions of Diva Grandma and their mother and the Demie Diva is simply a blonde version of same. (I know the niece isn't born yet...trust me...I've met her parents...she'll be brunette.)

At what point does it become  your child's story?  The Demie Diva always, always identifies herself by her full name.  She lets me know WHAT she wants to hear of her story of when she was a baby in the state of her birth.  While I can add certain details - her birthmother's first name has worked its way in, for example - I am unable to delete a thing.  She has to hear about the drive, Daddy going back to her brothers, Diva Grandma coming, driving to my home state, Diva Grandpa meeting her and the Awesome Auntie and Analytic Uncle coming to the Diva Grandparents' home right away.  She KNOWS her story.  She can fill it in.

Is it hers yet?  I don't know.

I do know that it's time to quit telling people she is the child of my heart rather than of my genetics.  I just don't know how on earth to have that conversation with the Diva Grandma.

It works for me...

Thanks to Claudia over at My Fascinating Life for this one.

What's working in my life right now.   Hmmm.  Too often, I use this blog to think through issues, or to document things that the Demie Diva will someday need to know.

What's working?

I don't care if anyone thinks my almost five year old is too old for me to lay with till she falls asleep.  Guess what?  It works for us, it keeps her secure, and it makes for some precious time together when we're forced simply to be together.

Five hundred viewings of Tangled or Calliou...works for me.  She pretends to be Rosie, and that DOES NOT work for me, but hey, a blonde heroine who kicks butt, and a little boy who solves problems by being a kid...okay.  Works for me.

Ice cream or pudding for breakfast.  Two purposes:  Meds in the kid.  Dairy in the kid.  Win/Win.

Bubbles.

Okay...all of you who are showing up in my feedjit.  What's working for you?

"Is she over-medicated?"

Someone asked me that today.

If the USGS reported an earthquake over 5.0 on the Richter scale in central Alabama, it was just yours truly trying not to pop off on some moron in front of other people at the dance school where the Demie Diva used to be a ballerina.

A former student of mine, whom I adore, recommended this place for me, in part because it's close, in part because she used to teach the class in which the Demie Diva is enrolled.  Now, the former student is AMAZING.  She watched the Demie Diva at aged two and laughed cause she knew I had a dancer of some sort on my hands, knew that this world was antithetical to me, and found it HILARIOUS.

Of course, that was pre-epilepsy.

The Demie Diva has been through hell.  She's emotionally about 9 months to a year behind her chronological age.  I have told the person in charge of the school this, with the understanding that this was to be communicated, along with the fact that she is epileptic, that meds are an inexact science, and that ... wait for it... loud sounds w/ amplification in the treble are going to (you should excuse me here) treble my child's neurological pathways.

Add to this the following:

The Demie Diva needs to know what is happening.  She is, in that way, rather like a post-institutionalized child.  The trauma of her last year (and it is a year.  Right.  Now.) has dictated that she has to  have control over her surroundings.  She may not follow the rules she knows to be arbitrary adult bulls  constructs, but at least she'll know what's expected.  The same kids aren't at dancing class every week.  The teacher is a teenager, which means that she is on the same kind of developmental roller coaster that her charges are.  The other kids bring in stuffed animals to the studio.  Some weeks she gets a coloring sheet, some weeks not.

It's an OCD person's little hell, I tell you.

Today, the Demie Diva reached out to her teacher - HURRAH - to practice skips.  This has been hard for the Demie Diva - first, because she doesn't trust easily, and second, because a little beeotch had told her she was doing it "wrong" so that was the kiss of death for skips and the Demie Diva.  And......WHAM

Let's go to the other studio.  Combine classes.  Meet another teacher who is older, male, and Belorussian.  Learn a routine with kids she doesn't know.  Yep.  Disaster.  I cried at that age.  The Demie Diva withdraws, stands on her own, and passive aggressively does NOT participate.

At which point, as I was simultaneously trying (yet again) to explain to the idiot woman in charge that we didn't know if the recital would be a go because of the effect of amplified sound on the Demie Diva's neurologic function, that she didn't know the wonderful man dancing with the girls so she was having nothing to do with him cause she had man issues (oh, and btw...that would be because she doesn't see her dad a lot...I mentioned that five hundred times, right?), and that she was emotionally closer to four than to five, I was asked about the Demie Diva's state on meds.

WTF?????

We have been working like HELL on meds this year.  Getting one titrated up.  Getting one titrated as low as we can get it cause we KNOW what it does to her, but that what happens without it sucks worse.  Getting her ADHD dealt with so that we can figure out where the hell the epilepsy holes are.

And this silly cow asks me, "Is she over-medicated?"

I see a future of educating asshats  ahead of me.

ADHD hell

Let's ride bikes.

If ever ever I doubted that the devil drug, Keppra, made the Demie Diva's ADHD worse, I only need look at my life in the last two weeks.

Monotherapy didn't work.  Those little myoclonic jerks I thought I saw?  Yeah, they were what I thought I saw.  Called the neuro and said, in essence...I've started her back on the devil drug.  This is the highest dose at which we had NO visible seizures and NO evil moods.  I refuse to go higher, but I want an official okay to do what I'm doing.  So, we're back on the devil drug.  It's working.

No visible seizures (unless we have a fatigue trigger) and no evilness.  But oh. my.God.

I'm showing my age here....but I used to be one hella wicked pinball player.  My own ADHD probably helped me bounce that little metal ball all over the place, and, quite frankly, the rest of the world never did march to my drum, so I undoubtedly worked of some serious ADHD aggression playing it.

No one told me that there was a four year old version of pinball.  Eff me, that child is off the wall when her Focalin wears off.  We have a listening ear factor of negative five hundred.  We have 6.02 times ten to the twenty-third lack of follow-through on directions as simple as "pick two stories please".  Really, don't tell me that's four and a half.  We have stories (two) every night.  Every.  Single. Night.

Sigh.

My patience, at the end of a day of teaching, is nil.  Somehow, I have to dig up more reserves, as she has been particularly trying the last two days.

I know, and as the grown-up, I understand, that this is partially exhaustion.  We got back from the Diva Grandparents' place on Sunday night.  We went back into reality on Monday, and her dad picked her up.  She was up in the middle of the night last night in near-hysterics over the loss of her stuffed giraffe.  (He'd fallen on the floor).  When she is tired, her brain goes into rapid-fire mode.  Fatigue is a trigger.  It's not her fault.  She can't help it, since the overactive brain does funky things to the ADHD.

Knowing what I know about her birthmother's medical history, I know that she comes by this genetically.  Knowing what I know about how much my child she is, I know that she comes by this honestly.

The apple doesn't fall far from either tree.  Which, actually, is another post - this one adoption related, and raising the tandem issues of "when does it become their story" and "how do I tell my relatives that it is now irrelevant unless the Demie Diva chooses to share.

This is a road I never expected to navigate.

Does someone have a map?

Pick yourself up...dust yourself off...

and start all over again.

Okay.  So I didn't get either of the jobs in my home state.  This is fine.  Really.  I'll keep telling myself this, and eventually I will believe it.  Sigh.  But you know what, that doesn't make it any easier.  At. All.

Now, I'm sure that there are reasons for this.  I'm sure that there will come a time when I can go home.  HOWEVER...now is not that time.

Still and all, it allows me the golden opportunity to see the Demie Diva tell her father to his face that she does NOT like him.  It allows me the far more golden opportunity to watch her tell him "Here Dad, let me show you the door for going out."

If I were a not very nice person, I'd be really gleeful.  But, this isn't about me.  It's about the Demie Diva.  And she needs a relationship with a male role model that is positive, nurturing, and pretty much everything my brother in law is.

I discovered this when we were up north last week.  The Demie Diva has always adored this particular uncle - seriously ADORES the man.  She wanted Analytic Uncle (he's a computer guy with the soul of a musician) to show her the silverback gorilla at the zoo.  She wanted him to hug and cuddle her.  She wanted to be with him at all times.

So, yet again, I have empirical evidence for what I need and for what she needs.

However, the trip up North also a trip of discovery.  The Diva Grandpa is aging.  Significantly.  How much of that is because he desperately needs his eyelids lifted so that he can see the 30% of the world he isn't seeing, I couldn't say.  How much of that is because he's more ADHD than I am, I couldn't say.  But I can say that as a blind as a bat visually impaired person, you don't process when you can't see.  As the ADHD adult that I am, I can say that when you KNOW you're not processing, it exacerbates your ADHD, which then causes  you to miss more, and know you're missing it,.... see the pattern?

So.

The Diva Grandpa is caught in a cycle of physical issues which are impacting his mental state.  He's an aging male, which automatically limits his ability to think outside the box.  He tends to be a bit curmudgeonly anyway, so this is not helping.

The Diva Grandma is a saint.  A saint, I tell you.

The Diva Grandma is also aging...but not as quickly as her sisters.  The Crazy Aunt is battling cancer - and losing.  This is kicking the DG's butt since as she put it "I can't do another funeral lunch."  The simple fact is that of nine, there are now three.  And, there will be two.  And of those two, the Diva Grandma is the matriarch, despite being the baby.  The Bossy Aunt will be 80 this summer, and the Demie Diva and I will head home (which it is) to meet the DD's new cousin, see the old cousin (he's three going on 300...seriously) and have some serious family time centered around the BA's 80th birthday party.

So, I pick myself up.  Commit to another year where I am.  See what the future holds.  And know that for all of the above, and more inarticulable reasons, we still need to be "home", even though, paradoxically, it was good to be "home" after a week away.

Dear Universe....

The conflicting messages I'm getting from the universe these days are seriously annoying the snot out of me.

REALLY.

Demie Diva is doing great.  G-R-E-A-T.  She is on monotherapy and is, as evidenced by my last post, her own little sassy stinker self.  The ADHD meds will get adjusted here and we should see the last of her focus issues vanish in a cloud of speed  Focalin.  However, her stated desire to get to the Land of Sky Blue Waters is profound.

Mine?  Oh, it's profane.

Seriously.

I get a wonderful "ding" letter from a school in my native state that makes me believe that the vote on making me a finalist for a position was a little divided.  And, really, it was a long shot, cause it was a lateral move for me, so I'm okay with that.  My own alma mater is seriously irritating me, as they continue to hire for one-year positions.  This is one of the few schools in my world with a teachers union...and they're hiring one-year hires.  Crap.  The other of the big three in my hometown...hiring in my field.  I've applied.  I will follow up this week with a phone call.

 Professionally, I'm happy.  I'm supported.  I want to see these freshmen I'm  currently teaching turn into amazing seniors, cause they are hilarious as freshmen.

Personally, I want to see my parents more than four times a year.  I want to watch my darling nephew be the precocious thing he is.  I want to meet my niece when she comes, and see her more than twice a year. I want to watch my sister and brother-in-law be amazing role models for all three of the grandchildren - my one and their two.

I can handle the waiting.  I can handle the ding letters.  I believe firmly in everything in its time.

But to taunt me with THREE different cars bearing plates from my native state on two consecutive mornings?  Universe????

Bite me.

Smarty McSmartypants

Oh dear...I am sooooo in for it.  (shut up...I hear the sniggering down here)

I have my girl back...and she is a smart little cookie.  She is also a snarky, funny, practical little girl.  I'm so proud of her, and so amazed by the ways in which she's rolled with the crappy hand she was dealt in the last year.

Needless to say, I'm going to have to take some serious poker-face lessons from someone, because she's HILARIOUS.

Yesterday, she and I went down with the crud.  Headache for her, head and gut for me. As we're driving to school (hey, I'm out of personal days here...I don't NEED the pay cut) and I'm dealing with sour burps, my child, from the back seat says. "Mom....if you need to throw up, roll down the window."

Okay then.  What wise advice.  I predict a future of pragmatism for the Demie Diva.

Last night, after the nightly energy burst which invariably presages bedtime, I asked her where her listening ears were.

"What Mom?  I can't hear you."

I'm screwed.

Thank God I can again see this child.  I've missed her more than I realized.

So far so good on the monotherapy.  I've seen what I can't be sure are or aren't some myoclonic jerks - mostly because she's got the growing pain wiggles right now.  Kinda hard to tell if it's a jerk when she tells me that her bones hurt.  Poor kid.  Those were horrible.

Isn't it wonderful?  I'm grumbling because my kid with TWO special needs is being a smartypants.  Perspective, baby.  It's all about perspective.

Sanity is NEVER overrated

The Demie Diva and I got kicked out of counseling yesterday - for being functional.  I LOVE this.

I do and I don't.

On the plus side:

1. I no longer am dropping $135.00 per visit for a wonderful psychologist, whom I adore and is worth EVERY penny, to observe Demie Diva and give me her take. 
2. I no longer am worried about my parenting skills.  Are they great?  No.  Am I perfect?  No.  Have they been validated as what MY child needs?  Yes.  
3. Demie Diva is definitely, unequivocally ADHD. 
4. I'm right, given everything she and I have been through in the last year, to hold her back from Kindergarten.

On the minus side:

1. Nowhere in this process has the XH been involved.  The WP knows him, she's seen "the brothers", and understands the personality type.
2. Demie Diva has no real attachment to her father. this is not a surprise, but still breaks my heart.
3. Telling the other parent that this is the case won't be effective, although the WP is willing to bang her head against that particular hunk of cinderblock if I want her to.

Much of this makes it very clear to me what my next step needs to be.  It's time to move on.  I'm not sure how I'm going to do it, without gainful employment in the Frozen North.  I like living well, and car insurance/tags, etc. up there is day-um expensive.  Demie Diva is covered by the Other Parent's insurance.  

How do I do this, friends?  

Keppra: the devil drug

Let me begin by saying that this is MY opinion of this drug in MY child.  It is incredibly effective in MANY epileptics, and doesn't impact them negatively.

My child, however, is not in that majority, and for her, this drug was the spawn of Satan.

Those of you who've followed this journey elsewhere may remember that last May, my sweet and sassy girl became an angry screaming hitter.  Despite the reduction in dose to the point where she wasn't whoopin-up on me, she just never was quite the Demie Diva I knew and loved.

When you are the parent of a special needs child, you tend to blame the condition rather than the treatment at first.  I became convinced, in no small part because Diva Grandma is a nurse, that despite what everyone was telling me this drug was taking away my child.  She was just "flat".  No sass, no sparkle, and definitely no sweet.

We traveled a road through school difficulty, which was long-term great since it got the Demie Diva diagnosed with ADHD sooner than would otherwise have happened.  I realized what a recluse I'd become because I couldn't trust her moods.  I definitely couldn't trust her to stay put and control her impulses.

When we got the okay to titrate down on the devil drug, I was ecstatic.  I was pretty sure that I'd find my girl somewhere in the middle of the process.  I didn't count on a moody, angsty first drop.  (Man, that was proof positive that she was affected by the drug)  I certainly didn't count on the spontaneous shows of affection that I hadn't even realized I'd missed.

Imagine going without spontaneous "I love you" from your child for MONTHS.  That was what Keppra did to her.

As we've gotten her down - and with one more titration to go - I can honestly say that she's back.  She has epilepsy.  She has ADHD.  She has the spirited personality that has me reading books about spirited children - and laughing in recognition.

What does this mean for her, long-term?  Well, it means we will do another year of pre-K rather than start kindergarten in August.  She likely will be academically ready - particularly given the asinine standards of 'readiness' that our current state of residence establishes.  However, we don't know where the holes are - socially or otherwise.  That drug, and the epilepsy it treats, cost my child a very important year.  No one says we can't start her in first grade when the time comes; but we can't risk having her hate school given her rather autonomous personality.

Does this cautionary tale have a moral?  I suppose it does.  The moral is...trust your instincts.  No one knows your child better than you do, and every doctor in the world can only do so much.  You and you alone are your child's best advocate.

I hate dentists....

No.  Seriously.  I view them as a necessary evil, and I'd rather have THREE mammograms and FIVE Pap smears a MONTH than go to the dentist.

And that was before I became the mother of a child with crappy enamel and really really groovy back teeth.

She had her first filling after her first dental visit.  It was so horrible for her that we skipped the next one and went in a year later.  Some battles ain't worth fighting, and she was little enough that trauma would last, but baby teeth wouldn't.

In the middle of epilepsy hell, I took her back last summer.  Some teeth we were going to watch, but he didn't want to fill them .. yet.  What about sealing?  Not usual for baby teeth and/or in a kid this small.

Flash forward to January.  The Demie Diva has two cavities on ONE molar.  I looked the dentist in the eye and said "I told you we should have sealed them.  This is going to set her back, given the trauma she's had with machines and epilepsy dx."  He told me it'd be bad, and might require a crown.  I told him there was no way he was working on my child without my presence, that I wouldn't contaminate his field, and that I'd do a better job holding her down than his staff.  He hemmed, as one does when one is Southern, Male, and more than a little paternalistic...and I looked him in the eye and told him that if I could hold her while they blew a vein sedating her for an MRI, and then hold her more tightly while the blood pumped, and we found another vein, I could jolly well handle this.

What the hell was I thinking?


I know.  I was advocating for my child's needs and interests.  


Holy Hannah.  This morning, I laid on my child while they drilled, exposed nerves that "looked healthy, but..." and put a crown on.  Then, having been warned that we might not be able to get her teeth sealed, I looked at him in the middle of the hysterics and said "Seal her now, cause I can guarantee you we won't get her back onto this table to do it later."  So he did. THEN he asked what procedures she'd had...so I ran them: one CT w/o sedation; three EEG-s (two in the last 10 months); and an MRI...only the last under sedation.  Poor kid.  This has been a crappy year.

No pain meds.   Motrin/Tylenol alternating q 3.  Soft foods.  Poor kid.  She went to work with me.  Her father was covering my first class cause we knew I'd be a little late.  The Demie Diva wanted just her mommy.

She wanted to go home.  (Do you blame her)  So.....

One panicked email to my colleagues later, I had my wonderful friend "K's Mom" in my room.  Morgan said she'd go with her, so I got to teach.  My afternoon classes were covered.  I went to get M, and she wanted a cupcake.  I got a salad.  And my other friends and colleagues stepped up when it became clear that her adrenaline/novocaine cocktail was wearing off and it was time. to. leave.  NOW and got a "to go box" for my salad, cleared my dishes, and took care of us.

I've gotten my reminder - as I often do - that I can ask for help and get it.  I've gotten further reminders that THIS is why we need to relocate to the state/place where she and I are loved and supported.  I'm not sure how on earth I'm going to manage it, and I am again planning on wallpapering my office with rejection letters...but the Diva Grandparents have agreed we can live with them to start ...

so...hope that the sealant worked. Hope that this last trauma is more quickly be recovered from than her last medical traumas... and oh dear friends, hope that this year at last, we can go home.

I don't want to.

My current favorite declarative sentence.

Usually used in conjunction with going to her dad's house.  Having been married to him, I understand her visceral response to the lack of emotional response to her very needy little self.  Having read all the divorce parenting books I understand that my response is simply "But Daddy loves you and you need to spend time with him".

Having watched her cling to me when I dropped her at his house on Sunday, I had a very hard time with that particular declarative this morning.  Demie Diva was clinging to me.  I was crouched on her level.  the XH was standing three feet away declaring his usual stuff instead of getting down where she could make eye contact with him.  When he dropped her at mine that evening, he said she just had NO energy and didn't really want to do anything.  Flash forward 15 minutes.  We're playing a game, she's in my way in the kitchen, we're thinking about how we're going to see Diva Grandma in a few days...

Needless to say, when she asked who was going to pick her up at school today (Mondays are Daddy days) and I told her, I had a very hard time delivering the party line.  So...we had a conversation about how if she didn't go to Dad's then today wouldn't be over.  If today didn't happen, then we couldn't have Morgan and Mommy days after school till Grandma came.  Sigh.

And I roll with this alone, since the extended Divas live in the state of my birth.

I don't want to.

Weekends are supposed to be relaxing...

Oh, I'm trying to be positive about this.  I really am.  But honestly, today was one of those days that HURT.

Today was the 40 something version of Four Weddings and a Funeral.  Only it was Two Birthday Parties and a Funeral.  The Funeral was, literally, a Funeral Mass.  It sucked because cancer took another mother of a young child too, too young.  Then, the Birthday Parties.

We had two today.  Concurrently.  For three kids.  The first was for the Demie Diva's friend from pre-K.  It was at one of those Jumpy places.  And, the year that the Demie Diva lost to epilepsy was so emotionally apparent.  But what was more apparent was that she couldn't cope with the stimuli.  It was too too much.  Too noisy.  Too many screaming kids (I have never wanted to grab a shrilly screaming 4 or 5 year old and scream "Shut the eff up" quite as much as I did a be-tutu-ed princess today).  Too many things with entrances that were holes that looked like CT-s and MRI-s.  She needed to leave about 30 minutes in.  The noise from the sound system hurt her ears.  The look on her face as her eyes started to get a little flat hurt my heart.

Epilepsy sucks.

So we went earlier than we'd planned to Party 2.  This one was a neighborhood party.  And we LOVE our 7 year old twin neighbors (and their awesome parents) so this was, to be wholly honest, the one party I look forward to every year.   Problem is that when you have twins, and you do ONE party, you get TWICE the number of kids.  And this was a year where the 7 to 4-and-a-half gap was huge.  Again, the year she lost - the fact that, realistically, she's emotionally not that much past where she was a year ago - was totally obvious.  And again...too many people. ... too much stimulus...too many places to choose.   It was an ADHD nightmare.

You know the cartoon "Which way did he go, George?" ... that was the Demie Diva. She's never seen Just Dance cause...gasp...I don't believe in game systems for the preschool set.  So, when the bigger girls were Wii dancing, she was doing her thing - till she realized she wasn't doing what the others were.  But the big boys were playing dodgeball - and the Demie Diva doesn't do things without purpose (NURTURE, baby) so she was all about that for two or three minutes and then ditching it.  

ADHD undoubtedly contributed, but I'm not about to increase her Focalin (which she needs) while we're decreasing the Keppra.  The latter drug has been what can only be described as the devil since the Demie Diva went on it.  She's been meaner than a snake, moody as hell, and now, as we titrate off of it, she's sad.  WEEPING sad.  We're dropping that a level tomorrow, which means that Monday through Thursday will, if the last titration is anything to go by, be hell.

So, to recap.  I went to a funeral.  Cried a bucket.  Took my child to two birthday parties - neither of which was great because of one disability or the other.  And am now sitting home on a Saturday night, trying to convince my own ADHD brain to be still when what I need to do is grade papers.

Midquarter grades are due this week.  The Demie Diva is dropping a level in the med that's messed with her personality for nearly a year.  My mother is coming on Thursday and my house is trashed.

It's gonna be a long week.